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Five Minutes 



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DAILY READINGS 



OF POETRY 



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FIVE MINUTES 



Datlp IRealungs of Ipoettp 



BCTBD i;v 

H. L. SIDNEY LEAR 

AUTHOR OF 'FOB DAY.s AND YEARS,' 'CHRISTIAN BIOGRAPHIES 



FIFTH EDITION 



iReto gork 

THOMAS WHITTAKER 
2 iSr-- 3 BIBLE HOUSE 









A s (i 5 5 5 



PREFACE 

This little volume has its origin in a conversation 
I heard many years ago between my father and a 
celebrated man of the time, who spoke of his habit 
of daily learning by heart a few lines of poetry 
before leaving his dressing-room in the morning. 
And, he observed, it was astonishing what a use- 
ful stork of verses he had in that way collected. 
Perhaps this book may suggest some such habit 
to those who take it up; and it may also lead 
them to read authors who, in these busy days of 
ours, get crowded out. 

I have to acknowledge the kindness and courtesy 
i >f almost too many authors and publishers to enu- 
merate — especially Messrs. Macmillan and Messrs. 
Blackwood, Cardinal Newman, Archbishop Trench, 
Lord Houghton, Mrs. C. Kingsley, Mrs. A. H. 
Clough, Miss C. Rossetti, Miss Jean Ingclow, 
Messrs. R. Browning, M. Arnold, F. Myers, 



PREFACE. 



J. A. Symonds, etc. etc., as well as the authors of 
several hitherto unpublished poems, which they 
have kindly allowed to appear in this little book. 
To these and all others I offer hearty thanks. 

H. L. SIDNEY LEAK. 



Tiif. Close, Salisbury, 

Whitsuntide, 1S82. 



DAILY READINGS 

^[anuarp i. 

THE CIRCUMCISION. 

Ye flaming Powers, and winged Warriors bright, 
That erst with music and triumphant song, 
First heard by happy watchful shepherds' ear, 
So sweetly sung your joy the clouds along, 
Thro' the soft silence of the list'ning night, 
Now mourn; and if sad share with us to bear 
Your fiery essence can distil no tear, 
Burn in your sighs, and borrow 
Seas wept from our deep sorrow : 
He who with all Heav'n's heraldry whilere 
Enter'd the world, now bleeds to give us ease. 
Alas ! how soon our sin 
Sore doth begin, 

His infancy to seize ! 

O more exceeding love, or law more just ! 
Just law, indeed, but more exceeding love ! 
For we by rightful doom remediless, 
Were lost in death, till He, that dwelt above 
High-thron'd in secret bliss, for us frail dust 
Emptied His glory, ev'n to nakedness ; 
u 



JANUARY 



And that great covenant which we still transgress 
Entirely satisfied, 
And the full wrath beside 
Of vengefull justice bore for our excess, 
And seals obedience first with wounding smart 
This day, but O ! ere long 
Huge pangs and strong 

Will pierce more near His Heart. 

Milton. 



Kanuarp 2. 

TO MUSIQUE, TO BECALMS HIS FEVER. 

Charme me asleep, and melt me so 

With thy delicious numbers, 
That being ravisht, hence I go 

Away in easie slumbers. 

Ease my sick head, 

And make my bed, 
Thou power that canst sever 

From me this ill ; 

And quickly still, 

Tho' thou but kill 
My fever. 

Thou sweetly canst convert the same 

From a consuming fire 
Into a gentle-licking flame, 

And make it thus expire. 

Then make me weep 

My paines asleep, 
And give me such reposes, 

That I, poore I, 

May think, thereby, 

I live and die 
'Mongst roses. 



JANUARY. 



Fall on me like a silent dew, 

Or like those maiden show'rs, 
Which, by the peep of day, doe strew 

A baptism o'er the flowers. 
Melt, melt my paines, 

With thy soft straines ; 
That having ease me given, 

With full delight 

I leave this light, 

And take my flight 
For Heaven. 

Herrick, Hesperides. 



Sfamiarp 3. 

THE LEISURE OF MAN'S FIRST DEATHLESS LIFE. 

Man's life was spacious in the early world : 

It paused, like some slow ship with sail unfurled, 

Waiting in seas by scarce a wavelet curled : 

Beheld the slow star-spaces of the skies, 

And grew from strength to strength through 

centuries : 
Saw infant trees fill out their giant limbs, 
And heard a thousand times the sweet birds' mar- 
riage hymns. 
Time was but leisure to their lingering thought, 
There was no need for haste to finish aught ; 
But sweet beginnings were repeated still, 
Like infant-babblings that no task fulfil, 
For love, that loved not change, constrained the 
simple will. 

George Eliot, Legend ofjubal. 



JANUARY, 



Januarr 4. 

ON THE DEATH OF HIS MOTHER. 

Thou shouldst have longer lived, and to the grave 
Have peacefully gone down in full old age ; 
Thy children would have tended thy gray hairs. 
We might have sate, as we have often done 

By our fireside, and talked whole nights away, 

Old times, old friends, and old events recalling, 

With many a circumstance of trivial note 

To memory dear, and o\ importance grown. 

How shall we tell them to a stranger's car? 

A wayward son ofttimes 1 was to thee ; 

And yet, in all our little bickerings. 

Domestic jars, there was I know not what 

Of tender feeling that were ill exchanged 

For this world's chilling friendships, and their smiles 

Familiar, whom the heart calls strangers still. 

A heavy lot hath he, most wretched man, 

Who lives the last of all his family ! 

He looks around him, and his eye discerns 

The face oi the stranger ; and his heart is sick. 

Man of the world, what canst thou do for him? 

Wealth is a burthen which he could not bear ; 

Mirth a strange crime, the which he dare not act. 

And generous wines no cordial to his soul. 

For wounds like his, Christ is the only cure. 

Co. preach to him of a world to come, 

Where friends shall meet and know each other's 

face ; 
Say less than this, and say it to the winds ! 

Charles Lamb. 



JANUARY. 



Sfanuarp 5. 

FRIENDSHIP. 

May I through life's uncertain tide 

Be still from pain exempt ; 
May all my wants be still supplied ; 
My state too low t' admit of pride, 

And yet above contempt. 

But, should Thy Providence Divine. 

A greater bliss intend, 
May all these blessings you design, 
If e'er those blessings shall be mine, 

Be centred in a friend. 

Merrick, 1720. 



lattuarg 6. 

Sleep, Holy Babe ! 

Upon Thy Mother's breast ! 
Great Lord of earth and sea and sky. 
How sweet it is to see Thee lie 

In such a place of rest. 

Sleep, Holy Babe ! 

Thine Angels watch around : 
All bending low, with folded wings, 
Before th' Incarnate King of kings, 

In reverent awe profound. 

Sleep, Holy Babe ! 

While I with Mary gaze 
In joy upon that face awhile, 
Upon the loving infant smile, 

Which there divinely plays. 



JANCARY. 



Sleep, Holy Babe ! 

Ah ! take Thy brief repose : 
Too quickly will Thy slumbers break, 
And Thou to lengthen d pains awake, 

That death alone shall close. 

Then must these hands, 

Which now so fair I see ; 
Those little dainty feet of Thine 
So soft, so delicately fine, 

Be pierced and rent for me ! 

Then must that brow 
Its thorny crown receive ; 
That cheek, more lovely than the rose, 
Be drench'd with blood, and marr'd with blows, 
That I therebv may live. 

E. Caswall. 



3!anuarr 7- 

You know her meek sister ? Oh, soft is the fall 

Of her fairy footsteps on hut and on hall ! 

To hide the old father's bleak doings below 

In pity she cometh, the ministering snow. 

With her mantle she covereth the shelterless trees, 

As they groan to the howl of the Borean breeze ; 

And baffles the search of the subtle wind, 

Guarding each crevice lest it should find 

Its moaning way to the fireless fold 

Of the trembling young, and the weeping old. 

When thro' her white bosom the daisy appears, 

She greets the fair stranger with motherly tears ; 

And they mingle so sweet with the golden ray 

Of the struggling beam that chides her away. 



JAXUARY. 



But where's the last speck of her brightness seen ? 

'Mid the bursting spring and the saucy green? 

In the coldest side of yon lone churchyard, 

Neglected graves she loveth to ward ; 

But not where gorgeous marble pleads, 

And frequent foot of mourner treads ; 

But down by the stranger's noteless lair, 

Where sighs are few and footsteps rare, 

She loveth, she loveth to linger there ! 

O'er hearts forgotten that sleep below, 

There is none to weep but the friendly snow. 



Thom. 



3!anuarE 8. 

HEART-COLDNESS. 

Fain would I wish what my heart cannot will : 
Between it and the fire a veil of ice 
Deadens the fire, so that I deal in lies ; 
My words and actions are discordant still. 

I love Thee with my tongue, then mourn my fill ; 
For love warms not my heart, nor can I rise, 
Or ope the doors of Grace, who from the skies 
Might flood my soul, and pride and passion kill. 

Rend Thou the veil, dear Lord ! Break Thou that 
wall, 
Which, with its stubbornness retards the rays 
Of that bright sun this earth hath dulled for me ! 

Send down Thy promised light to cheer and fall 
On Thy fair spouse, that I with love may blaze, 
/ And, free from doubt, my heart feel only Thee. 

Michael Angelo (J. A. Symonds). 



JANUAR V. 



3[anuan? 9- 

EARLY RISING. 

When first thy eyes unveil, give thy soul leave 

To do the like ; our bodies but forerun 

The spirit's duty : true hearts spread and heave 

Unto their God as flowers do to the sun. 

Give Him thy first thoughts ; then so shah thou keep 

Him company all day, and in Him sleep. 

Yet never sleep the sun up ; prayer should 
Dawn with the day ; there are set awful hours 
'Twixt Heaven and us ; the manna was not so good 
After sun-rising ; far day sullies flowers : 
Rise to prevent the sun ; sleep doth sins glut, 
And Heaven's gate opens when the world's is shut. 

Walk with thy fellow-creatures ; note the hush 
And whisperings amongst them. Not a spring 
Or leaf but hath his morning hymn ; each bush 
And oak doth know I AM. Canst thou not sing? 
O leave thy cares and follies ! Go this way, 
And thou art sure to prosper all the day. 

Serve God before the world ; let Him not go 
Until thou hast a blessing ; then resign 
The whole unto Him, and remember who 
Prevail'd by wrestling ere the sun did shine. 
Pour oil upon the stones, weep for thy sin, 
Then journey on, and have an eye to Heav'n. 



JANUARY. 



Mornings are mysteries : the first world's youth, 
Man's resurrection, and the future's bud, 
Shroud in their births ; the crown of life, light, truth 
Is styl'd their star ; the store and hidden food. 
Three blessings wait upon them, two of which 
Should move, — they make us holy, happy, rich. 

When the world's up, and every swarm abroad, 
Keep well thy temper, mix not with each clay : 
Despatch necessities ; life hath a load 
Which must be carried on, and safely may. 
Yet keep those cares without thee ; let the heart 
Be God's alone, and choose the better part. 

Henry Vaughan, 1695. 



31anuar£ 10. 

DIRGE. 

No tears, no sighing, no despair, 
No trembling dewy smile of care, 

No mourning weeds ; 
Nought that discloses 

1 A heart that bleeds. 
But looks contented I will bear, 
And o'er my cheeks strew roses, 
Unto the world I may not weep, 
But save my sorrow all, and keep 
A secret heart, sweet soul, for thee, 
As the great earth and swelling sea. 

T. Lovell Beddoes. 



JANUARY. 



3Tanuarp 1 1 . 



Gold banish'd honour from the mind, 

And only left the name behind ; 

Gold sowed the world with every ill ; 

Gold taught the murd'rer's sword to kill : 

'Twas gold instructed coward hearts 

In treachery's pernicious arts. 

Even virtue's self by knaves is made 

A cloak to carry on the trade ; 

And pow'r (when lodged in their possession) 

Grows tyranny and rank oppression. 

Thus, when the villain crams his chest, 

Gold is the canker of the breast : 

Tis avarice, insolence, and pride, 

And every shocking vice beside. 

But when to virtuous hands 'tis given, 

It blesses, like the dew of Heaven : 

Like Heaven it hears the orphan's cries, 

And wipes the tears from widows' eyes : 

Their crimes on gold shall misers lay, 

Who pawned their sordid souls for pay. 

Let bravoes then, when blood is spilt, 

Upbraid the passive sword with guilt. 

Gay. 
Ifanuarp 12. 

THE BUILDERS. 

All are architects of Fate 

Working in these walls of Time, 

Some with massive deeds and great, 
Some with ornaments of rhyme. 



JANUARY. ii 



Nothing useless is, or low ; 

Each thing in its place is best ; 
And what seems but idle show 

Strengthens and supports the rest. 

For the structure that we raise, 
Time is with materials filled ; 

Our to-days and yesterdays 
Are the blocks with which we build. 

Truly shape and fashion these ; 

Leave no yawning gaps between ; 
Think not because no man sees, 

Such things will remain unseen. 

In the elder days of Art, 

Builders wrought with greatest care 
Each minute and unseen part ; 

For the gods see everywhere. 

Let us do our work as well, 
Both the unseen and the seen ; 

Make the house where God may dwell 
Beautiful, entire, and clean. 

Else our lives are incomplete, 
Standing in these walls of Time ; 

Broken stairways, where the feet 
Stumble as they seek to climb. 

Build to-day, then, strong and sure, 
With a firm and ample base ; 

And ascending and secure 
Shall to-morrow find its place. 

Thus alone can we attain 

To those turrets, where the eye 

Sees the world as one vast plain, 
And one boundless reach of sky. 

Longfellow. 



JANUARY. 



31anuarp 13. 

CONTENT. 

There is a jewel which no Indian mine can buy, 

No chemic art can counterfeit ; 

It makes men rich in greatest poverty, 

Makes water wine, turns wooden cups to gold, 

The homely whistle to sweet music's strain ; 

Seldom it comes, to few from Heaven sent, 

That much in little, — all in nought — Content. 



Unknown Author of the cud 
of the XVI. Century. 



3fanuarp 14- 
arcite's death. 

And with that word his speche faille began ; 
For from his feet up to his brest was come 
The cold of deth, that had him overnome. 
And yet moreover in his armes two 
The vital strength is lost, and all ago, 
Only the intellect, withouten more, 
That dwelled in his herte sike and sore, 
Gan faillen, when the herte felte deth ; 
Dusked his eyen two, and failled his breth, 
But on his ladie yet cast he his eye ; 
His last word was, Mercy, Emelie ! 
His spirit changed hous, and wente ther, 
And as I came never I cannot tellen wher. 



JANUAR Y. 



No men might gladen this Duk Theseus, 
Saving his olde fader Egeus, 
That knew this worldes transmutatioun, 
As he had seen it chaungen up and down, 
Joye after wo, and wo after gladnesse ; 
And shewed him ensample and likenesse. 
Right as ther died never man (quod he), 
That he ne lived in erth in som degree, 
Right so ther lived never man (he seyd) 
In all this world, that sometime he ne deyd. 
This world n' is but a thurghfare ful of wo, 
And we ben pilgrimes, passing to and fro : 
Deth is an end of every worldes sore. 

Chaucer, The Knightfs Tale. 



^[anuarp 15. 

THE PRESENT. 

We live not in our moments or our years — * — 
The Present we fling from us like the rind 
Of some sweet Future, which we after find 
Bitter to taste, or bind that in with fears, 
And water it beforehand with our tears — 
Vain tears for that which never may arrive : 
Meanwhile the joy whereby we ought to live, 
Neglected or unheeded, disappears. 
Wiser it were to welcome and make ours 
Whate'er of good, tho' small, the present brings — 
Kind greetings, sunshine, song of birds, and flowers, 
With a child's pure delight in little things ; 
And of the griefs unborn to rest secure, 
Knowing that mercy ever will endure. 

Archbishop Trench. 



14 JANUARY. 



3fanuarg 16. 

DAPHNE. 

Daphne knows, with equal ease, 

How to vex and how to please ; 

But the folly of her sex 

Makes her sole delight to vex. 

Never woman more devised 

Surer ways to be despised ; 

Paradoxes weakly wielding, 

Always conquer'd, never yielding. ^_ 

To dispute, her chief delight, 

With not one opinion right ; 

Thick her arguments she lays on, 

And with cavils combats reason ; 

Answers in decisive way, 

Never hears what you can say ; 

Still her odd perverseness shows 

Chiefly where she nothing knows. 

And where she is most familiar, 

Always peevisher and sillier ; 

All her spirits in a flame 

When she knows she's most to blame. 

Send me hence ten thousand miles 

From a face that ever smiles ; 

None could ever act that part 

But a fury at her heart. 

Ye who hate such inconsistence, 

To be easy keep your distance ! 

Or in folly still befriend her, 

But have no concern to mend her. 

Lose no time to contradict her, 

Nor endeavour to convict her. 

Never take it in your thought 



JANUARY. 



That she'll own or cure a fault 
Into contradiction warm her, 
Then perhaps you may reform her ! 
Only take this rule along, 
Always to advise her wrong ; 
And reprove her when she's right, 

/ She may then grow wise for spite. 

' No — that scheme will ne'er succeed, 
She has better learnt her creed ; 
She's too cunning and too skilful 

When to yield, and when be wilful 

Nature holds her forth two mirrors, 
One for truth and one for errors ! 
That looks hideous, fierce, and frightful, 
This is flattering and delightful : 
That she throws away as foul ; 
Sits by this to dress her soul. 
Thus you have the case in view, 
Daphne, 'twixt the Dean and you ; 
Heaven forbid he should despise thee, 
But will never more advise thee ! 

Swift. 



31anuat2 17. 

Not a thing 
Is by itself, in joy or suffering. 
But she whom you have ta'en, and like a leaven 
With your existence kneaded, must be ever 
Another — scarce another^ self of thine. 

She breathes away her weary days and nights 
Among cold, hard-eyed men, and hides behind 
A quiet face of woe : but there are things, — 
A song, a face, a picture, or"a word,— 



1 6 JANUARY. 



Which, by some semblance, touch her heart to tears, 
And music, starting up among the strings 
Of a wind-shaken harp, undoes her secresy, — 
Rolls back her life to the first starry hour 
Whose flower-fed air you used, to speak of love ; 
And then she longs to throw her bursting breast, 
And shut out sorrow with Orazio's arms 
Thus— Oh, my Husband ! 

The Second Brother. 



3(anuari> 18. 

SELF-DEPENDENXE. 
/ 

Weary of myself, and sick of asking 
What I am, and what I ought to be, 
At this vessel's prow I stand, which bears me 
Forwards, forwards, o'er the starlit sea. 

And a look of passionate desire 

O'er the sea and to the stars I send : 

"Ye who from my childhood up have calm'd me 

Calm me, ah, compose me to the end ! 

ru Ah, once more," I cried, " ye stars, ye waters, 
On my heart your mighty charm renew ; 
Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you 
Feel my soul becoming vast like you !y 

From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven, 

Over the lit sea's unquiet way, 

In the rustling night-air came the answer : 

" Wouldst thou be as these are ? Live as they. 

"Unaffrighted by the silence round them, 
Undistracted by the sights they see, 
These demand not that the things without them 
Yield them love, amusement, sympathy. 



JANUARY. 17 



"And with joy the stars perform their shining, 
And the sea its long moon-silvered roll ; 
-For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting 
All the fever of some differing soul. 

"Bounded by themselves, and unregardful 
In what state God's other works may be, 
In their own tasks all their powers pouring ; 
These attain the mighty life you see." 

Oh, air-born voice ! long since, severely clear, 
A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear : 
" Resolve to be thyself ; and know that he 
Who finds himself, loses his misery !" 

Matthew Arnold. 



^fanuarp 19. 

With partial hands the gods their gifts dispense, 
Some greatly think, some speak with manly sense ; 
Here Heav'n an elegance of form denies, 
But wisdom the defect of form supplies : 
This man with energy of thought controls, 
And steals with modest violence our souls ; 
He speaks reserv'dly, but he speaks with force, 
Nor can one word be chang'd but for a worse. 
In public more than mortal he appears, 
And as he moves, the gazing crowd reveres, 
While others beauteous as th' ethereal kind, 
The nobler portion want, — a knowing mind. 
In outward show Heav'n gives thee to excel, 
But Heav'n denies the praise of thinking well. 

POPE'S Odyssey, Book viii. 185. 
c 



JANUARY. 



Slanuarp 20. 

GRIEF. 

Thus cavils she with everything she sees : 
True grief is fond and testy as a child 

Who wayward once, his mood with nought agrees. 

Old woes, not infant sorrows, bear them mild ; 

Continuance tames the one ; the other wild, 

Like an unpractised swimmer plunging still, 
With too much labour, drowns for want of skill. 

So she, deep-drenched in a sea of care. 
Holds disputation with each thing she views, 
And to herself all sorrow doth compare : 
No object but her passion's strength renews ; 
And as one shifts another straight ensues : 

Sometime her grief is dumb, and hath no words ; 

Sometime 'tis mad, and too much talk affords. 

The little birds that tune their morning joy 
Make her moans mad with their sweet melody, 
For mirth doth search the bottom of annoy ; 
Sad souls are slain in merry company. 
Grief is best pleas'd with griefs society : 
True sorrow then is feelingly suffie'd 
When with like semblance it is sympathis'd. 

'Tis double death to drown in ken of shore ; 
He ten times pines that pines beholding food ; 
To see the salve doth make the wound ache more ; 
Great grief grieves most at that would do it good ; 
Deep woes roll forward like a gentle flood, 

Who, being stopp'd, the bounding banks oer- 

flows : 
Grief dallied with nor law nor limit knows. 

Shakespeare, The Rape of Lucrccc. 



JANUARY. 19 



January 21. 

DYING. 

Why will ye call it " Death's dark night " ? 
Death is the entrance into Light ; 
Behind its cloudy purple gates 
The Everlasting Morning waits. 

Then fear not Death, its pains, its strife, 
Its weakness — these belong to life : 
Death is the moment when they cease, 
When Christ says " Come," and all is peace. 

Once, in the silence of the night, 
A maiden lay with smiles of light, 
Her blue eyes gazing open wide, 
And a few violets by her side. 

Her mother asked her why she smiled, 
What pleasant thoughts the time beguiled ? 
She answered her with gentle breath, 
"Thoughts of the sweetness found in Death." 

Death was but as her dark-hued flowers, 
Exhaling sweetness through the hours, 
Till, ere the early dawn could be, 
She breathed into Eternity. 



C. M. Noel. 



lanuarp 22. 

DREAMS. 

Prince Henry, log.— 

" I CANNOT sleep ! my fervid brain 
Calls up the vanished past again, 
And throws its misty splendours deep 
Into the pallid realms of sleep ! 
A breath from that far distant shore 



20 JANUAR Y. 



Comes freshening ever more and more. 

And wafts o'er intervening seas 

Sweet odours from the Hesperides ! 

A wind, that thro' the corridor 

Just stirs the curtain, and no more, 

And touching the ^olian strings, 

Faints with the burden that it brings ! 

Come back, ye friendships long departed ! 

That like o'erflowing streamlets started, 

And now are dwindled, one by one, 

To stony channels in the sun ! 

Come back, ye friends whose lives are ended ! 

Come back, with all that light attended, 

Which seemed to darken and decay 

When ye arose and went away ! 

'They come, the shapes of joy and woe, 
The airy crowds of long ago, 
The dreams and fancies known of yore, — 
That have been, and shall be no more ! 
They change the cloisters of the night 
Into a garden of delight ; 
They make the dark and dreary hours 
Open and blossom into flowers ! 
I would not sleep ! I love to be 
Again in their fair company ; 
But ere my lips can bid them stay 
They pass and vanish quite away ! 
Alas ! our memories may retrace 
Each circumstance of time and place ; 
Season and scene come back again, 
And outward things unchanged remain ; 
The rest we cannot reinstate, 
Ourselves we cannot re-create, 
Nor set our souls to the same key 
Of the remembered harmony ! " 

Longfellow, The Golden Legend. 



JANUARY. 21 



3(atutar2 23. 
heaven's echoes. 

Who will show me those delights on high ? 

Echo : I. 
Thou Echo, thou art mortal ! all men know. 

Echo: No. 
Wert thou not born among the trees and leaves ? 

Echo : Leaves. 
And are there any leaves that still abide ? 

Echo : Bide. 
What leaves are they ? impart the matter wholly. 

Echo ; Holy. 
Are holy leaves the Echo then of blisse ? 

Echo: Yes. 
Then tell me, what is that supreme delight ? 

Echo : Light. 
Light to the minde : what shall the will enjoy ? 

Echo: Joy. 
But are there cares and businesse with the pleasure? 

Echo : Leisure. 
Light, Joy, and Leisure ; but shall they persever ? 

Echo : Ever. 
George Herbert, The Church. 

^[anuarp 24. 

PARTING. 

Parting, to meet no more ! hard to the ear, 
But warm'd 'neath Meditation's brooding wing, 
Disclosing sweet and solemn thoughts, that here 
We are but strangers, homeward journeying : 
And whatsoe'er of good a gleam may fling 
On the receding bank, our course to cheer, 
As down the stream we sail, in some new sphere 



22 JANUARY 



May wake again, like some forgotten thing 
Seen in a dream. Yet, howsoe'er it seem, 
Sure ii were \\ ell to lea^ e it all to I lim. 
Him if we seek in all things, in all things 
Him shall we find, and nearer than we deem : 
[fbul the eye be single, Love the wings 
Shall find, and soar to liymns of Seraphim. 

Isaac \vm i iams. 



3(anuari? 25. 

SAINT I'M i . 

Christ! I am Christ's! and lei the name suffi< eyou, 

Ay, for me too 1 le greatly hath sufficed : 
Lo ! with no winning words I would entice you, 

Paul has no honour and no friend but Christ. 

Yes, without cheer of sister or of daughter, 

\ * s, without stay of father "i of son, 
Lone on the land and homeless on the water, 

Pass I in patience till the work be done. 
Let no man think thai sudden in a minute 

All is accomplished and the work is done ; 
Though with thine earliest dawn thou shouldsl 
begin it, 
Scarce were it ended in thy setting sun. 

"What," ye will say, "and thou who at Damascus 
Sawest the splendour, answeredst the voice, 

So hast thou suffered and canst dare tO ask us, 

Paul of the Romans, bidding us rejoice?" 

Shame on the flame so d_\ ing to an ember I 
Shame on the reed so lightly Overset ! 



JANUARY. 23 



Yes, I have seen him, can I not remember? 
Yes, I have known him, and shall Paul forget ? 

I, even I who from the fleshly prison 
Caught (I believe it, but I dare not say), 

Rose to the midlight of the Lord arisen, 
Woke to the waking rapture of the day. 

Ah ! they are shut, the ears of my divining, 

Sealed are the eyes that should have seen Him 
then ; 

Look what a beam from the Beloved shining ! 
Look what a night of treasonable men ! 

What was their tale of some one on a summit, 
Looking, I think, upon the endless sea, — 

One with a fate, and sworn to overcome it, 

One who was fettered, and who should be free ? 

Round him a robe, for shaming and for searing, 
Ate with empoisonment and stung with fire, 

He thro' it all was to his lord uprearing 
Desperate patience of a brave desire. 

Ay, and for me there shot from the beginning 
Pulses of passion broken with my breath ; 

Oh, thou poor soul, enwrapped in such a sinning, 
Bound in the shameful body of thy death ! 

Well, let me sin, but not with my consenting ; 

Well, let me die, but willing to be whole : 
Never, O Christ, — so stay me from relenting, — 

Shall there be truce betwixt my flesh and soul ! 

Also I ask, but ever from the praying 

Shrinks my soul backward, eager and afraid ; 

Point me the sum and shame of my betraying, 
Show me, O Love, Thy wounds that I have made ! 



24 JANUARY. 



Yes, thou forgivest, but with all forgiving 
Canst not renew mine innocence again : 

Make Thou, O Christ, a dying of my living, 
Purge from the sin, but never from the pain ! 

So shall all speech of now and of to-morrow, 
All He hath shown me or shall show me yet, 

Spring from an infinite and tender sorrow, 
Burst from a burning passion of regret ! 

Standing afar, I summon you anigh Him ; 

Yes, to the multitudes I shout and say, 
"This is my King! I preach and I deny Him ; 

Christ ! whom I crucify anew to-day \ " 

Frederic W. H. Myers. 



^January 26. 

SONG. 

Dry those fair, those crystal eyes, 

Which like growing fountains rise 

To drown their banks : Grief's sullen brooks 

Would better flow in furrow'd looks. 

Thy lovely face was never meant 

To be the shore of discontent. 

Then clear those wat'rish stars again, 
Which else portend a lasting rain, 
Lest the clouds which settle there 
Prolong my winter all the year, 
And thy example others make 
In love with sorrow, for thy sake. 

Dr. King, Bp. of Chichester, 
born 1 591. 



JANUARY. 25 



lamiarp 27. 

UPON HIS WHITE HAIRS. 

These hairs of age are messengers 
Which bid me fast repent and pray ; 
They be of death the harbingers 
That doth prepare and dress the way, 
Wherefore I joy that you may see 
Upon my head such hairs to be. 

They be the lines that lead the length 
How far my race was for to run ; 
They say my youth is fled with strength, 
And how old age is well begun ; 
The which I feel, and you may see 
Such lines upon my head to be. 

They be the strings of sober sound, 
Whose music is harmonical ; 
Their tunes declare a time from ground 
I came, and how thereto I shall : 
Wherefore I love that you may see 
Upon my head such hairs to be. 

God grant to those that white hairs have, 
No worse them take than I have meant, 
That after they be laid in grave, 
Their souls may joy their lives well spent. 
God grant, likewise, that you may see 
Upon my head such hairs to be. 

Lord Vaux, King Henry VIII. 



26 JANUARY. 



3[anuar£ 28. 

LOVE. 

.''Shepherd, what's Love ? I pray thee tell." 
"It is that fountain and that well 
Where pleasure and repentance dwell ; 
It is, perhaps, that sauncing bell 
That tolls us all to Heaven or hell, 
And this is Love, as I heard tell." 

"Yet what is Love? I prithee say." 
" It is a work on holiday ; 
It is December match'd with May, 
When lusty blood's in fresh array, 
And this is Love, as I hear say." 

" Yet what is Love ? good Shepherd, sain." 
" It is a sunshine mixt with rain ; 
It is a toothache, or like pain ; 
It is a game where none doth gain ; 
The lass saith no, and would full fain, 
And this is Love, as I hear sain." 

"Yet, Shepherd, what is Love, I pray?" 
" It is a yea, it is a nay, 
A pretty kind of sporting fray ; 
It is a thing will soon away ; 
Then, nymphs, take vantage while you may, 
And this is Love, as I hear say." 

"And what is Love, Good Shepherd, show." 

" A thing that creeps, that cannot go ; 

A prize that passeth to and fro ; 

A thing for one, a thing for moe, 

And he that proves, shall find it so." 

"And, Shepherd, this is Love, I trow." 

Sir Walter Raleigh. 



JANUARY. 27 



3fanuan? 29. 

Oh ! how much more doth Beauty beauteous seem 
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give ! 
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem 
For that sweet odour which doth in it live ; 
The canker blooms have full as deep a dye 
As the perfumed tincture of the roses, 
Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly, 
When summer's breath their masked buds discloses ; 
But, for their virtue only is their show, 
They live unwoo'd, and unrespected fade, 
Die to themselves — Sweet roses do not so, 
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made ; 
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, 
When that shall fade my verse distils your truth. 
Shakespeare, Sonnet LIV. 



3(anuarg 30. 

MAJESTY IN MISERY. 

Great monarch of the world, from whose power 

springs 
The potency and power of kings, 
Record the royal woe my suffering sings ; 

And teach my tongue, that ever did confine 

Its faculties in truth's seraphick line, 

To track the treasons of thy foes and mine. 

Nature and law, by Thy divine decree 
(The only root of righteous royaltie), 
With this dim diadem invested me ; 



28 JANUAR Y. 



With it, the sacred scepter, purple robe, 
The holy unction, and the royal globe ; 
Yet am I levell'd with the life of Job. 

The fiercest furies, that do daily tread 
Upon my grief, my gray discrowned head, 
Are those that owe my bounty for their bread. 

They raise a war, and christen it The Cause, 
While sacrilegious hands have best applause, 
Plunder and murder are the kingdom's laws ; 

Tyranny bears the title of taxation, 
Revenge and robbery are reformation, 
Oppression gains the name of sequestration. 

My loyal subjects, who in this bad season 
Attend me (by the law of God and reason), 
They dare impeach, and punish for high treason. 

Next at the clergy do their furies frown, 

Pious episcopacy must go down, 

They will destroy the crosier and the crown. 

Churchmen are chain'd and schismaticks are freed, 
Mechanicks preach, and holy fathers bleed. 
The crown is crucified with the creed. 

The Church of England doth all factions foster, 
The pulpit is usurpt by each impostor, 
Extemp07'e excludes the Paternoster. 

The Presbyter and Independent seed 

Springs with broad blades. To make religion bleed 

Herod and Pontius Pilate are agreed. 

The corner stone's misplac'd by every pavier : 
With such a bloody method and behaviour 
Their ancestors did crucifie our Saviour. 



JANUAR Y. 29 



My royal consort, from whose fruitful womb 
So many princes legally have come, 
Is forced in pilgrimage to seek a tomb. 

Great Britain's heir is forced into France, 
Whilst on his father's head his foes advance : 
Poor child ! he weeps out his inheritance. 

With my own power my majesty they wound, 

In the King's name the King himself's uncrown'd, 

So doth the dust destroy the diamond. 

With propositions daily they enchant 

My people's ears, such as do reason daunt, 

And the Almighty will not let me grant. 

They promise to erect my royal stem, 

To make me great, to advance my diadem, 

If I will first fall down, and worship them ! 

But for refusal they devour my thrones, 
Distress my children, and destroy my bones ; 
I fear they'll force me to make bread of stones. 

My life they prize at such a slender rate, 
That in my absence they draw bills of hate, 
To prove the king a traytor to the State. 

Felons obtain more privilege than I, 
They are allow'd to answer ere they die ; 
'Tis death for me to ask the reason why. 

But, sacred Saviour, with Thy words I woo 

Thee to forgive, and not be bitter to 

Such as Thou know'st do not know what they do. 

For since they from their Lord are so disjointed 
As to contemn those edicts He appointed, 
How can they prize the power of His anointed ? 



3Q JANUARY 



Augment my patience, nullifie my hate, 
Preserve my issue, and inspire my mate, 
Yet, though we perish, Bless this Church and State ! 
King Charles I., Written 

in Carisbrooke Castle, 164S. 



3lanuarp 31. 

Since I did leave the presence of my love, 
Many long weary days I have outworn, 
And many nights that slowly seem'd to move 
Their sad protract from evening until morn. 
For where as day the heaven doth adorn, 
I wish that night the noyous day would end ; 
And when as night hath us of light forlorn, 
I wish that day would shortly reascend. 
Thus I the time with expectation spend, 
And fain my grief with changes to beguile, 
That further seems his term still to extend, 
And maketh every minute seem a mile. 
So sorrow still doth seem too long to last, ■ — 
But joyous hours do fly away too fast. 

Spenser, Sonnet LXXXVI. 



r 



FEBRUARY. 31 



JFebruarg 1. 

CANDLEMASSE EVE. 

Down with rosemary and bayes, 

Down with the misleto, 
Instead of holly now upraise 

The greener box for show. 

The holly hitherto did sway ; 

Let box now domineere, 
Untill the dancing Easter-day, 

Or Easter's Eve appeare. 

Then youthful box, which now hath grace 

Your houses to renew, 
Grown old, surrender must his place 

Unto the crisped yew. 

When yew is out, then birch comes in, 

And many flowers beside, 
Both of a fresh and fragrant kinne, 

To honour Whitsuntide. 

Green rushes then, and sweetest bents, 

With cooler oken boughs, 
Come in for comely ornaments 

To readorn the house. 

Thus times do shift, each thing his turne do's hold 
New things succeed as former things grow old. 
Herrick, Hesfierides. 



32 FEBRUARY. 



Jfebruarp 2. 

PARVUM QUANDO CERNO DEUM. 

Oft as Thee, my Infant Saviour, 
In Thy Mother's arms I view, 

Straight a thousand thrilling raptures 
Overflow my heart anew. 

Happy Babe ! and happy Mother ! 

Oh how great your bliss must be ! 
Each enfolded in the other, 

Sipping pure felicity ! 

As the sun from darkness springing, 
Breathes a charm o'er nature's face 

So the Child to Mary clinging 
Decks her with diviner grace. 



< 



As the limpid dew descending, 
Lies impearl'd upon the rose ; 

So their mutual beauty blending, 
In transporting union glows. 

As when early spring advances, 

Flowers unnumbered throng the mead, 

Such the countless loving glances 
That in turn from each proceed. 

Lovely Jesus ! gentle Brother ! 

How I wish a smile from Thee, 
Meant for Thy immortal Mother, 

Only might alight on me ! 

E. Caswall. 



FEBRUARY. 33 



jfebruarg 3. 

To see sad sights moves more than hear them told ; 
For then the eye interprets to the ear 
The heavy motion that it doth behold, 
When every part a part of woe doth bear, 
'Tis but a part of sorrow that we hear. 
Deep sounds make lesser noise than shallow 

fords, 
And sorrow ebbs, being blown with wind of 
words. 

Shakespeare, Rape of Lucrece. 

jfebruarp 4* 

LIFE. 

Life ! I know not what thou art, 
But know that thou and I must part ; 
And when, or how, or where we met 
I own to me's a secret yet. 
Life ! we've been long together, 
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather ; 
'Tis hard to part when friends are dear — 
Jperhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear ; 
Then steal away, give little warning, 
Choose thine own time ; 

Say not good-night, but in some brighter clime 
Bid me " Good-morning." MrSi Barbauld. 

jfebruarp 5. 

THE PERFECT DAY. 

Dark is the sky that overhangs my soul, 
The mists are thick that through the valley roll, 
But as I tread I cheer my heart and say, 
When the Day breaks the shadows flee away. 
D 



34 FEBRUARY. 



Unholy phantoms from the deep arise, 
And gather thro' the gloom before mine eyes ; 
But all shall vanish at the dawning ray — 
When the Day breaks the shadows flee away. 

I bear the lamp my Master gave to me, 
Burning and shining must it ever be, 
And I must tend it till the night decay — 
Till the Day breaks and shadows flee away. 

He maketh all things good unto His own, 
For them in every darkness light is strewn ; 
He will make good the gloom of this my day — 
Till that Day break and shadows flee away. 

He will be near me in the awful hour, 

When the last Foe shall come in blackest power ; 

And He will hear me when at last I pray, 

Let the Day break and shadows flee away. 

In Him, my God, my glory, I will trust : 
Awake and sing, O dweller in the dust ! 
Who shall come, will come, and will not delay — 
His day will break, those shadows flee away ! Amen. 

S. J. Stone. 



Jfebruarp 6. 

ETERNITY. 

One morning, all alone, 
Out of his convent of gray stone, 
Into the forest older, darker, grayer, 
His lips moving as if in prayer, 
His head sunken upon his breast 
As in a dream of rest, 



"S 



FEBRUARY. 



35 



Walked the Monk Felix. All about 
The broad sweet sunshine lay without, 
Filling the summer air ; 
And within the woodlands as he trod, 
The twilight was like the Truce of God 
With worldly woe and care ; 
Under him lay the golden moss, 
And above him the boughs of the hem- 
lock trees 
Waved, and made the sign of the Cross, 
And whispered their Benedicites ; 
And from the ground 
Rose an odour sweet and fragrant 
Of the wild flowers and the vagrant 
Vines that wandered, 
Seeking the sunshine, round and round. 

These he heeded not, but pondered 
On the volume in his hand, 
A volume of St. Augustine, 
Wherein he read of the great unseen 
Splendours of God's great town 
In the unknown land, 
And with his eyes cast down 
In humility, he said— 
; I believe, O God, 
What herein I have read, 
But alas ! I do not understand ! " 

And lo ! he heard 

The sudden singing of a bird, 

A snowwhite bird, that from a cloud 

Dropped down, 

And among the branches brown 

Sat singing 

So sweet, and clear, and loud, 

It seemed a thousand harpstrings ringing. 



36 FEBRUARY. 



And the Monk Felix closed his book, 

And long, long, 

With rapturous look, 

He listened to the song, 

And hardly breathed or stirred, 

Until he saw as in a vision, 

The land Elysian, 

And in the heavenly city heard 

Angelic feet 

Fall on the golden flagging of the street. 

And he would fain 

Have caught the wondrous bird, 

But strove in vain ; 

For it flew away, away, 

Far over hill and dell, 

And instead of its sweet singing, 

He heard the convent bell 

Suddenly in the silence ringing, 

For the service of noonday. 

And he retraced 

His pathway homeward sadly and in haste 

In the convent there was a change ! 
He looked for each well-known face, 
But the faces were new and strange ; 
New figures sat in the oaken stalls, 
New voices chanted in the choir ; 
Yet the place was the same place, 
The same dusky walls 
Of cold, gray stone, 
The same cloisters and belfry and spire. 

A stranger and alone 

Among that brotherhood 

The Monk Felix stood. 
" Forty years," said a Friar, 
" Have I been Prior 



FEBRUARY. 37 



Of this convent in the wood, 

But for that space 

Never have I beheld thy face !" 

The heart of the Monk Felix fell, 

And he answered with submissive tone, 
" This morning after the hour of prime, 

I left my cell, 

And wandered forth alone, 

Listening all the time 

To the melodious singing 

Of a beautiful white bird, 

Until I heard 

The bells of the convent ringing 

Noon from their noisy towers. 

It was as if I dreamed ; 

For what to me had seemed 

Moments only, had been hours ! " 
" Years ! " said a voice close by. 

It was an aged monk who spoke, 

From a bench of oak 

Fastened against the wall ; — 

He was the oldest monk of all, 

For a whole century 

Had he been there, 

Serving God in prayer, 

The meekest and humblest of His creatures. 

He remembered well the features 

Of Felix, and he said, 

Speaking distinct and slow, 
" One hundred years ago, 

When I was a novice in this place, 

There was here a monk, full of God's grace, 

Who bore the name 

Of Felix, and this man must be the same." 

And straightway 

They brought forth to the light of day 



38 FEBRUARY. 



A volume old and brown, 

A huge tome, bound 

In brass and wild-boar's hide, 

Wherein were written down 

The names of all who had died 

In the convent, since it was edified. 

And there they found, 

Just as the old monk said, 

That on a certain day and date, 

One hundred years before, 

Had gone forth from the convent gate 

The Monk Felix, and never more 

Had entered that sacred door. 

He had been counted among the dead ! 

And they knew at last, 

That such had been the power 

Of that celestial and immortal song, 

A hundred years had passed, 

And had not seemed so long 

As a single hour ! 

Longfellow, The Golden Legend. 



jFebruarp 7. 

GONE. 

The voice which I did more esteem 

Than music in her sweetest key ; 
Those eyes which unto me did seem 

More comfortable than the day ; 
Those now by me as they have been, 

Shall never more be heard or seen, 
But what I once enjoyed in them, 

Shall seem hereafter as a dream. 



FEBRUARY. 39 



All earthly comforts vanish thus ; 

So little hold of them have we, 
That we from them, as they from us, 

May in a moment ravished be. 
Yet we are neither just nor wise 

If present mercies we despise ; 
Or mind not how there may be made 

A thankful use of what we had. 

G. Wither. 



jfebmarg 8. 

If sorrow came not near us, and the lore 
Which wisdom-working sorrow best imparts, 
Found never time of entrance to our hearts ; — 
If we had won already a safe shore, 
Or if our changes were already o'er, 
Our pilgrim being we might quite forget ; 
Our hearts but faintly on those mansions set, 
Where there shall be no sorrow any more ; 
Therefore we will not be unwise to ask 
This, nor secure exemption from our share 
Of mortal suffering, and life's drearier task — 
Not this, but grace our portion so to bear, 
That we may rest when grief and pain are over, 
With the meek Son of our Almighty Lover. 

Archbishop Trench. 



jfebruarp 9. 

Come, my Way, my Truth, my Life : 
Such a Way, as gives us breath, 
Such a Truth, as ends all strife, 
Such a Life, as killeth death. 



4Q FEBRUARY. 



Come, my Light, my Feast, my Strength ; 
Such a Light, as shows a feast ; 
Such a Feast, as mends in length ; 
Such a Strength, as makes his guest. 

Come, my Joy, my Love, my Heart : 
Such a Joy, as none can move ; 
Such a Love, as none can part ; —- ^ 
Such a Heart, as joyes in love. 

George Herbert, The Church. 



jfebrtiarp 10. 

What can we do, o'er whom the unbeholden 
Hangs in a night with which we cannot cope ? 

What but look sunward, and with faces golden 
Speak to each other softly of a hope ? 

Can it be true, the grace He is declaring? 

Oh let us trust Him, for His words are fair ! 
Man, what is this, and why art thou despairing? 

God shall forgive thee all but thy despair. 

Truly He cannot, after such assurance, 
Truly He cannot, and He shall not fail ; 

Nay, they are known, the hours of thine endurance, 
Daily thy tears are added to the tale. 

Never a sigh of passion or of pity, 

Never a wail for weakness or for wrong, 

Has not its archive in the Angels' city, 
Finds not its echo in the endless song. 

Not as one blind and deaf to our beseeching, 
Neither forgetful that we are but dust, 

Not as from heavens too high for our up-reaching, 
Coldly sublime, intolerably just. 



FEBRUARY. 



Nay, but Thou knewest us, Lord Christ, Thou 
knowest, 

Well Thou rememberest our feeble frame, 
Thou canst conceive our highest and our lowest, 

Pulses of nobleness and aches of shame. 

Therefore have pity ! not that we accuse Thee, — 
Curse Thee and die and charge Thee with our 
woe ; 

Not thro' Thy fault, O Holy One, we lose Thee, 
Nay, but our own, — yet hast Thou made us so ! 

Then though our foul and limitless transgression 
Grows with our growing, with our breath began, 

Raise Thou the arms of endless intercession, 
Jesus, divinest when Thou most art Man. 

Frederic W. H. Myers, Saint Paid. 



jfebruarp n. 

" THOU speakest carelessly of death, 
And yet thou knowest not what it is ? " 

" Tis the cessation of our breath ; 
Silent and motionless we lie, 
And no one knoweth more than this. 
I saw our little Gertrude die ; 
She left off breathing, and no more 
I smoothed the pillow beneath her head ; 
She was more beautiful than before ; 
Like violets faded were her eyes, 
By this we knew that she was dead. 
Thro' the open windows looked the skies 
Into the chamber where she lay, 
And the wind was like the sound of wings, 
As if angels came to bear her away. 



42 FEBRUARY 



Ah ! when I saw and felt these things, 
I found it difficult to stay ; 
I longed to die as she had died, 
And go forth with her, side by side. 
The Saints are dead, the Martyrs dead, 
And Mary and our Lord, and I 
Would follow in humility 
The way by them illumined ! " 

Longfellow, The Golden Legend. 



jfebruarp 12. 

THOU KNOWEST. 

Thou knowest, Lord, the weariness and sorrow 
Of the sad heart that comes to Thee for rest ; 

Cares of to-day, and burdens for to-morrow, 
Blessings implored, and sins to be confessed : 

I come before Thee at Thy gracious word, 

And lay them at Thy feet, — Thou knowest, Lord. 

Thou knowest all the past, — how long and blindly 
On the dark mountains the lost wanderer strayed ; 

How the Good Shepherd followed, and how kindly 
He bore it home, upon His shoulders laid, 

And healed the bleeding wounds, and soothed the 
pain, 

And brought back life, and hope, and strength again. 

Thou knowest all the present, — each temptation, 
Each toilsome duty, each foreboding fear ; 

All to myself assigned of tribulation, 

Or to beloved ones, than self more dear ! 

All pensive memories, as I journey on, 

Longings for vanished smiles and voices gone ! 



FEBRUARY. 43 



Thou knowest all the future, — gleams of gladness 
By stormy clouds too quickly overcast ; 

Hours of sweet fellowship, and parting sadness, 
And the dark river to be crossed at last : 

Oh, what could confidence and hope afford 

To tread that path, but this, "Thou knowest, Lord !" 

Thou knowest, not alone as God, all knowing, 
As Man, our mortal weakness Thou hast proved ; 

On earth, with purest sympathies o'erflowing, 
O Saviour, Thou hast wept and Thou hast loved ; 

And love and sorrow still to Thee may come 

And find a hiding-place, a rest, a home. 

Therefore I come, Thy gentle call obeying, 
And lay my sins and sorrows at Thy feet, 

On everlasting strength my weakness staying, 
Clothed in Thy robe of righteousness complete ; 

Then rising and refreshed, I leave Thy throne, 

And follow on to know as I am known. 



jFebruarp 13. 

CELESTIAL LOVE. 

I saw no mortal beauty with these eyes 

When perfect peace in thy fair eyes I found ; 
But far within, where all is holy ground, 
My soul felt Love, her comrade of the skies : 

For she was born with God in Paradise ; 

Else should we still to transient loves be bound ; 
But finding these so false, we pass beyond 
Unto the Love of loves that never dies. 

Nay, things that die cannot assuage the thirst 
Of souls undying ; nor Eternity 
Serves Time, where all must fade that flourisheth. 



44 FEBRUARY, 



Sense is not love, but lawlessness accurst : 

This kills the soul, while our love lifts on high 
Our friends on earth — higher in heaven thro' 
death. 

Michael Angelo (J. A. Symonds). 



jfebruarj? 14- 

BURIAL OF THE DEAD. 

I THOUGHT to meet no more, so dreary seem'd 
Death's interposing veil, and thou so pure, 

Thy place in Paradise 

Beyond where I could soar, 

Friend of this worthless heart ! But happier thoughts 
Spring like unbidden violets from the sod, 

Where patiently thou tak'st 

Thy sweet and sure repose. 

The shadows fall more soothing : the soft air 
Is full of cheering whispers like thine own ; 

While Memory, by thy grave, 

Lives o'er thy funeral day ; 

The deep knell dying down, the mourner's pause, 
Waiting their Saviour's welcome at the gate. — 

Sure with the words of Heaven 

Thy spirit met us there, 

And sought with us along th' accustomed way 
The hallowed porch, and entering in, beheld 

The pageant of sad joy, 

So dear to Faith and Hope. 



FEBRUARY. 45 



O ! hadst thou brought a strain from Paradise 
To cheer us, happy soul, thou hadst not touched 

The sacred springs of grief 

More tenderly and true, 

Than those deep warbled anthems, high and low, 
Low as the grave, high as the Eternal Throne, 

Guiding through light and gloom 

Our mourning fancies wild, 

Till gently, like soft golden clouds at eve, 
Around the western twilight, all subside 

Into a placid Faith, 

That even with beaming eye 

Counts thy sad honours, coffin, bier, and pall ; 
So many relics of a frail love lost, 

So many tokens dear 

Of endless love begun. 

Listen ! it is no dream : th' Apostles' trump 
Gives earnest of the Archangels' ; — calmly now 

Our hearts yet beating high 

To that victorious lay, 

Most like a warrior's to the martial dirge 
Of a true comrade, in the grave we trust 

Our treasure for a while : 

And if a tear steal down, 

If human anguish o'er the shaded brow 

Pass shuddering, when the handful of pure earth 

Touches the coffin lid ; 

If at our brother's name 

Once and again the thought "for ever gone," 
Come o'er us like a cloud, yet, gentle spright, 
Thou turnest not away, 
Thou knowest us calm at heart. 



46 FEBRUARY. 



One look, and we have seen our last of thee, 
Till we too sleep, and our long sleep be o'er : 

Oh, cleanse us, ere we view 

That countenance pure again. 

Thou, who canst change the heart and raise the dead ! 

As Thou art by to soothe our parting hour, 
Be ready when we meet, 
With Thy dear pardoning words. 

John Keble. 



jfebruarp 15. 

As from a mountain's top the rainy mists of the 

morning 
Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape below us, 
Sun-illumined, with shining rivers and cities and 

hamlets, 
So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the 

world far below her, 
Dark no longer, but all illumined with love ; and 

the pathway 
Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and 

fair in the distance. 
Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was 

his image, 
Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she 

beheld him, 
Only more beautiful made by his death-like silence 

and absence. 
Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it 

was not ; 
Over him years had no power ; he was not changed, 

but transfigured ; 
He had become to her heart as one who is dead 

and not absent ; 



FEBRUARY. 47 



Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to 

others, 
This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had 

taught her. 
So was her love diffused, but, like to some odorous 

spices, 
Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air 

with aroma ; 
Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to 

follow 
Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her 

Saviour. 

Longfellow, Evangefaie, 



Jfebruarp 16. 

A FABLE. 

I shall not ask Jean Jacques Rousseau 

If birds confabulate or no ; 

Tis clear that they were always able 

To hold discourse, at least in fable ; 

And even the child, who knows no better 

Than to interpret by the letter, 

A story of a cock and bull, 

Must have a most uncommon skull. 

It chanced, then, on a wintry day, 

But warm, and bright, and calm as May, 

The birds, conceiving a design 

To forestal sweet St. Valentine, 

In many an orchard, copse, and grove 

Assembled on affairs of love, 

And with much twitter and much chatter, 

Began to agitate the matter. 

At length a Bullfinch who could boast 

More years and wisdom than the most, 



48 FEBRUARY. 



Intreated, opening wide his beak, 

A moment's liberty to speak ; 

And, silence publicly enjoined, 

Deliver'd briefly thus his mind : — 
" My friends ! be cautious how ye treat 

The subject upon which we meet ; 

I fear we shall have winter yet." 

A Finch, whose tongue knew no control, 

With golden wing and satin poll, 

A last year's bird, who ne'er had tried 

What marriage means, thus pert replied :— 
" Methinks the gentleman," quoth she, 
" Opposite in the apple tree, 

By his goodwill would keep us single 

Till yonder heaven and earth shall mingle, 

Or (which is likelier to befall), 

Till death exterminate us all ; 

I marry without more ado, 

My dear Dick Redcap, what say you?'' 

Dick heard, and twcedling, ogling, bridling, 

Turning short round, strutting, and sideling, 

Attested glad his approbation 

Of an immediate conjugation. 

Their sentiments so well express'd 

Influenced mightily the rest ; 

All paird, and each pair built a nest. 

But though the birds were thus in haste, 

The leaves came on not quite so fast, 

And Destiny that sometimes bears 

An aspect stern on man's affairs 

Not altogether smiled on theirs. 

The wind, of late breath'd gently forth, 

Now shifted east and east by north ! 

Bare trees and shrubs but ill, you know, 

Could shelter them from rain or snow ; 

Stepping into their nests, they paddled, 

Themselves were chill'd, their eggs were addled. 



FEBRUARY. 49 



Soon every father bird and mother 

Grew quarrelsome and peck'd each other ; 

Parted without the least regret, 

Except that they had ever met, 

And learn'd in future to be wiser, 

Than to neglect a good adviser. 



Moral. 

Misses ! the tale that I relate 
This lesson seems to carry — 
Choose not alone a proper mate, 
But proper time to marry ! 



Cowper. 



jfebruar^ 17. 

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars in the 

sea, 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen ; 
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, 
That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown. 

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, 
And breathed in the face of his foe as he pass'd ; 
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, 
And their hearts but once heav'd, and for ever grew 
still ! 

e 



5 o FEBRUARY, 



And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, 
But thro' it there roll'd not the breath of his pride ; 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail ; 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
And the might of the ('.entile, nnsmote by the sword, 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! 

Byron. 



Jfebruarp iS. 

Can I see another's woe 
And not be in sorrow too ? 
Can I sec another's grief 
And not seek for kind relief? 

Can I see a falling tear 
And not feel my sorrow's share ? 
Can a father see his child 
Weep, nor be with sorrow filled ? 

Can a mother sit and hear 
An infant groan, an infant fear? 
No, no ! never can it be ! 
Never, never can it be ! 

And can He Who smiles on all 
Hear the wren with sorrows small, 
Hear the small birds' grief and care, 
Hear the woes that infants bear — 



FEBRUARY. 51 



And not sit beside the nest, 
Pouring pity in their breast ? 
And not sit the cradle near, 
Weeping tear on infant's tear ? 

And not sit both night and day, 
Wiping all our tears away ? 
Oh no ! never can it be ! 
Never, never can it be ! 

He doth give His joy to all ; 
He becomes an infant small, 
He becomes a man of woe, 
He doth feel the sorrow too. 

Think not thou canst sigh a sigh, 
And thy Maker is not by ; 
Think not thou canst weep a tear, 
And thy Maker is not near. 

Oh ! He gives to us His joy, 
That our grief He may destroy ; 
Till our grief is fled and gone, 
He doth sit by us and moan. 

William Blake. 



jfebruarp 19. 

Are there not, then, two musics unto men ? 
One loud and bold and coarse 
And overpowering still perforce 
All tone and tune beside ; 
Yet in despite its pride 

Only of fumes of foolish fancy bred, 

And sounding solely in the sounding head : 
The other, soft and low, 
Stealing whence we not know, 

Painfully heard and easily forgot, 



52 FEBRUARY. 



With pauses oft and many a silence strange 

(And silent oft it seems when silent it is not), 

Revivals too of unexpected change : 

Haply thou think'st 'twill never be begun, 

Or that 't has come, and been, and passed away : 

Yet turn to other none, — 

Turn not, oh turn not thou ! 
But listen, listen, listen, — if haply be heard it may, 
Listen, listen, listen, — is it not sounding now ? 

A. H. Clough. 



Jfebruarp 20. 

THE BEAUTIFUL DEATH. 

Song of a Cavalier's Mother. 

He died the beautiful death, 

For the Church and for the King ! 

Shall his mother shed a single tear, 

While yet so proudly she can hear 
His war-cry ring — 

So fiercely strong, so sweetly clear — 
"For Church and King"? 

He died the beautiful death, 

My own brave boy : 
And— break tho' it may it in its desolate ruth — 
Thy mother's heart for thy loyal truth 

Hath passionate joy ! 
Dead though thou art in thy strength and youth, 

My glorious boy ! 

He died the beautiful death, 

Last of his race : 
I saw him slain from the castle wall, 
The last and the dearest one left to recall 

His father's face : 



FEBRUARY. 53 



The last and the noblest and fairest of all 
Of the ancient race. 

But he died the beautiful death, 
For the Church and the King ! 

And none shall see me shed one tear, 

While yet o'er sorrow my soul can hear 
The war-cry ring — 

So fiercely strong, so sweetly clear — 
"For Church and King !" 



S. J. Stone. 



jfebruarE 21. 

O GLOTONIE, full of cursednesse ; 

O cause first of our confusion, 

O original of our damnation, 

Til Crist had bought us with His Blood agen. 

Loketh, how dere, shortly for to sain 

Abought was thilke cursed vilaine : 

Corrupt was all this world for glotonie. 

Adam, our father, and his wif also 

Fro' Paradis, to labour and to wo, 

Were driven for that vice, it is no drede, 

For while that Adam fasted, as I rede, 

He was in Paradise, and whan that he 

Ete of the fruit defended on a tree, 

Anon he was cast out to wo and peine. 

O glotonie, on thee wel ought us plaine. 

O wist in man how many maladies 

Folwen of excesse and of glotonies, 

He wolde ben the more mesurable 

Of his diete, sitting at his table. 

Chaucer, Par doner e's Tale. 



54 FEBRUARY. 



Jfebruarp 22. 

LENT. 

Welcome, deare feast of Lent : who loves not thee, 
He loves not Temperance, nor Authoritie, 

But is composed of passion. 
The Scriptures bid us fast, the Church says Now : 
Give to thy mother what thou wouldst allow 

To ev'ry corporation. 

It's true, we cannot reach Christ's forti'th day ; 
Yet to go part of that religious way 

Is better than to rest : 
We cannot reach our Saviour's puritic ; 
Yet we are bid, "Be holy ev'n as He !" 

In both let's do our best. 

Who goeth in the way which Christ hath gone, 
Is much more sure to meet with Him, than one 
That travelled] by-wayes. 

Perhaps my God, though He be fane before, 
May turn, and take me by the hand, and more, 
May strengthen my decayes. 

Yet, Lord, instruct us to improve our fast 
By starving sinne, and taking such repast 

As may our faults controle : 
That ev'ry man may revell at his doore, 
Not in his parlour ; banquetting the poore, 

And among those his soul. 

George Herbert. 



FEBRUARY. 55 



jfebruarp 23. 

THE BLIND BOY. 

SAY ! what is that thing call'd light, 
Which I must ne'er enjoy ? 

What are the blessings of the sight ? 
O tell your poor blind boy ! 

You talk of wondrous things you see, 
You say the sun shines bright ; 

1 feel him warm, but how can he 

Or make it day or night ? 

My day or night myself I make, 

Whene'er I sleep or play ; 
And could I always keep awake, 

With me 'twere always day. 

With heavy sighs I often hear 

You mourn my hapless woe ; 
But sure with patience I can bear 

A loss I ne'er can know. 

Then let not what I cannot have 

My cheer of mind destroy ; 
Whilst thus I sing, I am a king, 

Although a poor blind boy ! 

COLLEY ClBBER, 167 1-1737- 



56 FEBRUARY. 



JFcbruarp 24. 

Let not soft slumber close your eyes, 
Before you've recollected thrice 
The train of action through the day ! 
Where have my feet chose out their way? 
What have I learnt, where'er I've been, 
From all IVe heard, from all I've seen? 
What know I more that's worth the knowing? 
What have I done that's worth the doing ? 
What have I sought that I should shun? 

What duty have 1 left undone? 
( )r into what new follies run ? 
These self-inquiries are the road 
That leads to virtue and to (iod. 

Watts. 



Jffbruarp 25. 

Thou cam'st not to thy place by accident, 

It is the very place God meant for thee ; 

And shouldst thou there small scope for action seej 

Do not for this give room to discontent ; 

Nor let the time thou owest to God be spent 

In idly dreaming how thou mightest be, 

In what concerns thy spiritual life, more free 

From outward hindrance or impediment ; 

lor presently this hindrance thou shalt find 

That without which all goodness were a task 

So slight, that Virtue never could grow strong : 

And wouldst thou do one duty to His mind, 

The Imposer's — overburdened thou shalt ask, 

And own thy need of grace to help, ere lon^ r . 

Archbishop Trench. 






FEBRUARY. 57 



jFebmarg 26. 

SEPARATION. 

A THOUSAND pretty ways we'll think upon 

To mock our separation. 

Alas ! ten thousand will not do : 

My heart will thus no longer stay, 

No longer 'twill be kept from you, 

But knocks against the breast to get away. 

And when no art affords me help or ease, 
I seek with verse my griefs t' appease ; 
That as a bird that flies about, 
And beats itself against the cage, 
Finding at last no passage out, 
It sits and sings, and so o'ercomes its rage. 

Cowley. 



jfebruarg 27. 

LOVE OF SELF AND GOD. 

This love of self sinks man in sinful sloth : 
Yet, if he seek to live, he needs must feign 
Sense, goodness, courage. Thus he dwells in 

pain, 
A sphinx, twy-soulcd, a false self-stunted growth. 

Honours, applause, and wealth, these torments 
soothe ; 
Till jealousy, contrasting his foul stain 
With virtues eminent, by spur and rein 
Drives him to slay, steal, poison, break his oath. 



5S FEBRUARY. 



But he who loves our common Father, hath 

All men for brothers, and with God doth joy 
In whatsoever worketh for their bliss. 

Good Francis called the birds upon his path, 
Brethren ; to him the fishes were not coy. — 
Oh, blest is he that comprehendeth this ! 

Cam PAN ELLA (J. A. Symonds). 



JFcbruarp 28. 

THE soul, secured in her existence, smiles 
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point 
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself 
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in yeai 
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, 
Unhurt amidst the war of elements, 
The wreck of matter and the crash of worlds. 

Addison. 



Jfctmiarp 29. 

For many books I care not, and my store 
Might now suffice me, tho' 1 had no more 
Than ('.oil's two Testaments, and therewithal 
That mighty volume which the world we call ! 
For these well look'd on, well in mind preserved, 
The present age's passages observed, 
My private actions seriously o'er-viewed, 
My thoughts recall'd, and what of them ensued, 
Arc books, which better far instruct me can, 
Than all the other paper-works of man : 
And some of these I may be reading, too, 
Where'er I come, or whatsoe'er I do. 

George Wither. 



MARCH. 59 



iHarcf) i. 

ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND. 

Welcome, wild North-Easter ! 

Shame it is to see 
Odes to every zephyr ; 

Ne'er a verse to thee. 
Welcome, black North-Easter i 

O'er the German foam ; 
O'er the Danish moorlands, 

From thy frozen home. 
Tired we are of summer, 

Tired of gaudy glare, 
Showers soft and steaming, 

Hot and breathless air. 
Tired of listless dreaming, 

Through the lazy day : 
Jovial wind of winter, 

Turns us out to play ! 
Sweep the golden reed beds ; 

Crisp the lazy dyke ; 
Hunger into madness 

Every plunging pike. 
Fill the lake with wild-fowl ; 

Fill the marsh with snipe ; 
While on dreary moorlands 

Lonely curlew pipe. 
Thro' the black fir forest 

Thunder harsh and dry, 
Shattering down the snow-flakes 

Off the curdled sky. 



6o MARCH. 



Hark ! the brave North-Easter, 

Breast high lies the scent, 
On by holt and headland, 

Over heath and bent. 
Chime, ye dappled darlings, 

Thro' the sleet and snow. 
Who can over-ride you ? 

Let the horses go ! 
Chime, ye dappled darlings, 

Down the roaring blast ; 
You shall see a fox die, 

Ere an hour be past. 
Go ! and rest to-morrow, 

Hunting in your dreams, 
While our skates are ringing 

O'er the frozen streams. 
Let the luscious south wind 

Breathe in lovers' sighs, 
While the lazy gallants 

Bask in ladies' eyes. 
What does he but soften 

Heart alike and pen ? 
Tis the hard gray weather 

Breeds hard Englishmen. 
What's the soft south-wester ? 

'Tis the ladies' breeze, 
Bringing home their true-loves 

Out of all the seas ; 
But the black North-Easter, 

Thro' the snowstorm hurled, 
Drives our English hearts of oak 

Seaward round the world. 
Come, as came our fathers, 

Heralded by thee, 
Conquering from the eastward, 

Lords by land and sea. 



MARCH. 



Come ! and strong within us 

Stir the Viking's blood ; 
Bracing brain and sinew ; 



C. KlNGSLEY. 



JElarcf? 



The worst that can befall 
Is happier thousandfold than one 

Who never loved at all. 
A grace within his soul has reigned 
" Which nothing else can bring ; — 
Thank God for all that I have gained 
By that high suffering ! 

Lord Houghton. 



JEtarcf? 3. 

Miserere Dotnine ! 

The words are utter'd, and they flee, 

Deep is their penitential moan, 

Mighty their pathos, but 'tis gone. 

They have declared the spirit's sore, 

Sore load, and words can do no more. 

Beethoven takes them— those two 

Poor, bounded words — and makes them new 

Infinite makes them, makes them young ; 

Transplants them to another tongue, 

Where they can now, without constraint, 

Pour all the soul of their complaint, 

And roll adown a channel large 

The wealth divine they have in charge. 



62 MARCH. 



Page after page of music turn, 
And still they live, and still they burn, 
Perennial, passion-fraught, and free — 
Miserere J) online / 

Matthew Arnold. 



iBarcf? 4. 

VANITY OF VANITIES. 

The fables of the world have filched away 
The time I had for thinking upon God ; 
His grace lies buried 'neath oblivion's sod, 
Whence springs an evil crop of sins alway. 

What makes another wise, leads me astray. 
Slow to discern the bad path I have trod : 
Hope fades ; but still desire ascends that God 
May free me from self-love, my sure decay. 

Shorten half-way my road to Heaven from earth ! 
Dear Lord, I cannot even half-way rise, 
Unless Thou help me on this pilgrimage. 

Teach me to hate the world so little worth, 

And all the lovely things I clasp and prize ; 
That endless life, ere death, may be my wage 
Michael Angelo (J. A. Symonds). 



ittarcb 5. 

Nothing is left or lost — nothing of good, 
Or lovely ; but whatever its first springs 
Has drawn from God, returns to Him again 
That only which 'twere misery to retain 
Is taken from you, which to keep were loss ; 
Only the scum, the refuse, and the dross 
Are borne away unto the grave of things, 



MARCH. 63 



Meanwhile whatever gifts from Heav'n descend 

Thither again have flowed, 

To the receptacle of all things good, 

From Whom they come and unto Whom they tend, 



Ye that remain, nor fruitlessly revolve, 
Darkling, the riddles which ye cannot solve, 
But do the works that unto you belong, 
Believing that for every mystery, 
For all the death, the darkness, and the curse 
Of this dim universe, 
Needs a solution full of love must be, 
And that the way whereby ye may attain 
Nearest to this, is not thro' broodings vain 
And half rebellious — questionings of God, 
But by a patient seeking to fulfil 
The purpose of His everlasting Will, 
Treading the path which lowly men have trod. 
Archbishop Trench. 



iHarcfj 6. 

Alas, why plainen men so in commune 
Of purveiance of God, or of fortune, 
That yeveth hem ful oft in many a gise 
Wei better than they can hemself devise ? 
Som man desireth for to have richesse, 
That cause is of his murdre or gret sikenesse, 
And som man wold out of his prison fayn 
That in his house is of his meynie slain. 
Infinite harmes ben in this matere. 
We wote not what thing we praien here. 
We seken fast after felicite, 
But we go wrong ful often trewely. 

Chaucer, The Knightfs Tale. 



64 MARCH. 



iHarcf? 7. 

Can I not come to Thee, my God, for these 

So very many meeting hindrances, 

That slack my pace, but yet not make me stay ? 

Who slowly goes, rides, in the end, his way ; 

Cleere Thou my paths, or shorten Thou my miles, 

Remove the barrs, or lift me o'er the stiles ; 

Since rough the way is, help me when I call, 

And take me up, or els prevent the fall, 

I kenn my home ; and it affords some ease 

To see far off the smoking villages. 

Fain would I rest, yet covet not to die, 

For feare of future biting penurie ; 

No, no, my God, Thou know'st my wishes be 

To leave this life, not loving it, but Thee. 

HERRICK, Noble Numbers. 

ittaref) 8. 

ON HIS BLINDNESS. 

WHEN I consider how my light is spent 
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide ; 
And that one talent which is death to hide, 
Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent 
To serve therewith my .Maker, and present 

My true account, lest He returning chide ; 

Doth God exact day labour, light deny'd, 
I fondly ask ? but Patience, to prevent 
That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need 
Either man's works or His own gifts ; who best 

Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best : His state 
Is kingly ; thousands at His bidding speed, 
And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; 

They also serve who only stand and wait. 

Milton. 



MARCH. 65 



THE ELIXIR. 

Teach me, my God and King, 

In all things Thee to see, 
And what I do in anything, 

To do it as for Thee : 

Not rudely, as a beast 

To runne into an action ; 
But still to make Thee prepossest, 

And give it his perfection. 

A man that looks on glasse 

On it may stay his eye ; 
Or if he pleaseth, thro' it passe 

And then the heav'n espie. 

All may of Thee partake ; 

Nothing can be so mean, 
Which with his tincture (for Thy sake) 

Will not grow bright and clean. 

A servant with this clause 

Makes drudgerie divine : 
Who sweeps a room, as for Thy laws, 

Makes that and th' action fine. 

This is the famous stone 

That turneth all to gold : 
For that which God doth touch and own 

Cannot for lesse be told. 

George Herbert, The Church. 

F 



66 MARCH. 



iBarrt; 10. 

There is a Reaper, whose name is Death, 

And, with his sickle keen, 
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, 

And the flowers that grow between. 

" Shall I have nought that is fair?" saith he ; 
" Have nought but the bearded grain ? 
Though thebreath of these flowers is sweettome, 
I will give them all back again." 

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, 
He kissed their drooping leaves ; 

It was for the Lord of Paradise 
He bound them in his sheaves. 

11 My Lord has need of these flowerets gay," 

The Reaper said, and smiled ; 
11 Dear tokens of the earth are they, 

Where He was once a child. 

"They shall all bloom in fields of light, 
Transplanted by my care, 
And saints, upon their garments white, 
These sacred blossoms wear." 

And the mother gave, in tears and pain, 

The flowers she most did love ; 
She knew she should find them all again, 

In the fields of light above. 

Oh ! not in cruelty, not in wrath, 

The Reaper came that day ; 
'Twas an angel visited the green earth, 

And took the flowers away. 

Longfellow. 



MARCH. 67 



Jftarcf? 11. 

OPPORTUNITY. 

He who bends to himself a joy 
Does the winged life destroy ; 
But he who kisses the joy as it flies 
Lives in eternity's sunrise. 

If you trap the moment before it's ripe, 
The tears of repentance you'll certainly wipe 
But if once you let the ripe moment go, 
You can never wipe off the tears of woe. 

W. Blake. 



fiflarcf? 12. 

When once thy foot enters the church, be bare, 
God is more there than thou ; for thou art there 
Only by His permission. Then beware, 
And make thyself all reverence and fear. 

Kneeling ne'er spoil'd silk stocking ; quit thy state, 
All equall are within the church's gate. 

Let vain or busie thoughts have there no part ; 

Bring not thy plough, thy plots, thy pleasures thither : 

Christ purg'd His temple, so must thou thy heart. 

All worldly thoughts are but thieves met together 
To couzin thee. Look to thy actions well, 
For churches either are our Heav'n or hell. 

Judge not the preacher, for he is thy judge ; 
If thou mislike him thou conceiv'st him not. 
God calleth preaching folly. Do not grudge 
To pick out treasures from an earthen pot. 

The worst speak something good : if all want 
sense, 

God takes a text and preaches patience. 



68 MARCH. 



He that gets patience and the blessing which 
Preachers conclude with, hath not lost his pains. 
He that by being at church escapes the ditch, 
Which he might fall in by companions, gains. 
He that loves God's abode, and to combine 
With saints on earth, shall one day with them shine. 

George Herbert, The Church Porch. 



itfarcb 13- 

ON STELLA'S BIRTHDAY, 

13th March 1718. 

Stella this day is thirty-four 

(We shan't dispute a year or more) ; 

However, Stella, be not troubled, 

Altho' thy size and years are doubled 

Since first I saw thee at sixteen, 

The brightest virgin on the green ; 

So little is thy form declined, 

Made up so largely in thy mind. 

O would it please the gods to split 

Thy beauty, size, and years, and wit ! 

No age could furnish out a pair 

Of nymphs so graceful, wise, and fair, 

With half the lustre of your eyes, 

With half your wit, your years, and size. 

And then before it grew too late, 

How should I beg of gentle fate 

(That either nymph might have her swain) 

To split my worship too in twain ! 

Swift. 



MARCH. 69 



Jftarcf) 14. 

There's not a joy the world can give like that it 

takes away, 
When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's 

dull decay ; 
Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone 

which fades so fast, 
But the tender bloom of heart is gone ere youth 

itself be past. 

Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck 

of happiness 
Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess ; 
The magnet of their course is gone, or only points 

in vain 
The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never 

stretch again. 

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death 

itself comes down ; 
It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its 

own ; 
That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our 

tears, 
And tho' the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the 

ice appears. 

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth 

distract the breast, 
Through midnight hours, that yield no more their 

former hope of rest ; 
'Tis but as ivy leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe, 
All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and 

gray beneath. 



7o MARCH. 



Oh, could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been, 
Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a 

vanished scene ; 
As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish 

though they be, 
So midst the wither'd waste of life those tears would 

flow to me ! Byron. 

J*latcf> 1 5. 

Let me not to the marriage of true minds 
Admit impediments. Love is not love 
Which alters when it alteration finds, 
Or bends with the remover to remove : 
O no ; it is an ever-fixed mark, 
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken ; 
It is the star to every wandering bark, 
Whose worth's unknown, altho' his height be taken. 
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks 
Within his bending sickle's compass come ; 
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 
But bears it out even to the edge of doom. 
If this be error, and upon me prov'd, 
I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd. 



fflarc!) 16. 

ELEONORA. 

As precious gums are not for lasting fire, 
They but perfume the temple and expire ; 
So was she soon exhal'd, and vanished hence, 
A short sweet odor, of a vast expence. 
She vanish'd, — we can scarcely say she dy'd, 
For but a Now did heaven and earth divide : 
She pass'd serenely with a single breath, 
This moment perfect health, the next was death. 



MARCH. 71 



As gentle dreams our waking thoughts pursue, 
Or one dream pass'd, we slide into a new ; 
So close they follow, such wild order keep, 
We think ourselves awake, and are asleep : 
So softly death succeeded life in her, 
She did but dream of Heaven and she was there. 
No pains she suffer'd, nor expir'd with noise, 
Her soul was whisper'd out with God's still voice. 

He took her as He found, but found her so, 
As one in hourly readiness to go. 

Dryden. 



i&arcf) 17- 

THE STARLINGS. 

EARLY in spring time, on raw and windy mornings, 

Beneath the freezing house-eaves, I heard the star- 
lings sing — 

"Ah, dreary March month, is this then a time for 
building wearily ? 

Sad, sad, to think that the year is but begun." 

Late in the autumn, on still and cloudless evenings 
Among the golden reed-beds I heard the starlings 

sing — 
"Ah, that sweet March month, when we and our 

mates were courting merrily ; 
Sad, sad, to think that the year is all but done." 

Charles Kingsley. 



72 MARCH. 



J&arc!) 1 8. 

BROTHER AND SISTER. 



I CANNOT choose but think upon the time 
When our two lives grew like two buds that kiss 
At lightest thrill from the bee's swinging chime, 
Because the one so near the other is. 

He was the elder, and a little man 
Of forty inches, bound to show no dread, 
And I the girl that puppy-like now ran, 
Now lagged behind my brother's larger tread. 

1 held him wise, and when he talked to me 
Of snakes and birds, and which God loved the best, 
I thought his knowledge marked the boundary 
Where men grew blind, though angels knew the rest. 
If he said " Hush ! " I tried to hold my breath, 
Whenever he said " Come ! " I stepped in faith. 



Thus rambling we were schooled in deepest lore, 
And learned the meanings that give words a soul, 
The fear, the love, the primal passionate store, 
Whose shaping impulses make manhood whole. 

Those hours were seed to all my after good ; 
My infant gladness, through eye, ear, and touch, 
Took easily as warmth a various food 
To nourish the sweet skill of loving much. 



MARCH. 73 



For who in age shall roam the earth and find 
Reasons for loving that will strike out love 
With sudden rod from the hard year-pressed mind ! 
Were reasons sown as thick as stars above. 

'Tis love must see them, as the eye sees light ; 

Day is but number to the darkened sight. 



IX. 

We had the self-same world enlarged for each 
By loving difference of girl and boy, 
The fruit that hung on high beyond my reach 
He plucked for me, and oft he must employ 

A measuring glance to guide my tiny shoe 
Where lay firm stepping-stones, or call to mind 
" This thing I like my sister may not do, 
For she is little, and I must be kind." 

Thus boyish will the nobler mastery learned 
Where inward vision over impulse reigns, 
Widening its life with separate life discerned, 
A like unlike, a self that self restrains. 

His years with others must the sweeter be 
For those brief days he spent in loving me. 



XI. 

School parted us ; we never found again 
That childish world where our two spirits mingled 
Like scents from varying roses that remain 
One sweetness, nor can evermore be singled. 

Yet the twin habit of that early time 
Lingered for long about the heart and tongue 
We had been natives of one happy clime, 
And its dear accent to our utterance clung, 



74 MARCH. 



Till the dire years, whose awful name is Change, 
Had grasped our souls still yearning in divorce, 
And pitiless shaped them in two forms that range, 
Two elements which sever their life's course. 

But were another childhood- world my share, 
I would be born a little sister there. 

George Eliot. 



ittarcf) 19. 

WISHES ABOUT DEATH. 

1 wish to have no wishes left, 
But to leave all to Thee ; 

And yet I wish that Thou shouldst will 
Things that I wish should be. 

And these two wills I feci within 
When on my death 1 muse ; 

But, Lord ! I have a death to die, 
And not a death to choose. 

Why should I choose ? for in Thy love 

Most surely I descry 
A gentler death than I myself 

Should dare to ask to die. 

But Thou wilt not disdain to hear 
What those few wishes are. 

Which I abandon to Thy love, 
And to Thy wiser care. 

Triumphant death I would not ask, 

Rather would deprecate, 
For dying souls deceive themselves 

Soonest when most elate. 



MARCH. 75 



All graces I would crave to have 

Calmly absorbed in one — 
A perfect sorrow for my sins 

And duties left undone. 

All Sacraments and Church-blest things 

I fain would have around, 
A priest beside me, and the hope 

Of consecrated ground. 

I would the light of reason, Lord, 

Up to the last might shine, 
That my own hands might hold my soul 

Until it passed to Thine. 

And I would pass in silence, Lord, 

No brave words on my lips, 
Lest pride should cloud my soul, and I 

Should die in the eclipse. 

But when, and where, and by what pain — 

All this is one to me ; 
I only long for such a death 

As most shall honour Thee. 

Long life dismays me by the sense 
Of my own weakness scared ; 

And by Thy grace a sudden death 
Need not be unprepared. 

One wish is hard to be unwished — 

That I at last might die 
Loving, — absolved from all my sin, 

To praise Thy Majesty. 

F. W. Faeer. 



76 MARCH. 



iElarcl) 20 

Therefore to whom turn I but to Thee, the 

ineffable Name? 
Builder and Maker, Thou, of houses not made with 

hands ! 
What, have fear of change from Thee Who art ever 

the same ? 
Doubt that Thy power can fill the heart that Thy 

power expands ? 
There shall never be one lost good ! What was 

shall live as before ; 
The evil is null, is nought, is silence implying sound ; 
What was good, shall be good, with, for evil, so 

much good more ; 
On the earth the broken arcs ; in the heaven a 

perfect round. 



All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good, 

shall exist, 
Not its semblance, but itself ; no beauty, nor good, 

nor power 
Whose voice has gone forth, but each survives for 

the melodist, 
When eternity confirms the conception of an hour. 
The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth 

too hard, 
The passion that left the ground to lose itself in 

the sky, 
Are music sent up to God by the lover and the bard ; 
Enough that He heard it once ; we shall hear it by- 

and-bye. 

R. Browning, Abt Vogler. 



MARCH. 77 



JBarcf? 21. 

TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON. 

When love with unconfined wings 

Hovers within my gates, 
And my divine Althea brings 

To whisper at my grates ; 
[ When I lye tangled in her haire, 

And fetter'd with her eye, 
The birds that wanton in the aire 

Know no such libertie. 

When flowing cups run swiftly round 

With no allaying Thames, 
Our carelesse heads with roses crowned, 

Our hearts with loyal flames ; 
When thirsty griefe in wine we steepe, 

When healths and draughts goe free, 
Fishes that tipple in the deepe 

Know no such libertie. 

When, linnet-like, confined I 

With shriller note shall sing 
The mercye, sweetness, majestye, 

And glories of my king ; 
When I shall voyce aloud how good 

He is, how great should be, 
Th' enlarged windes that curl the flood 

Know no such libertie. 

Stone walls do not a prison make, 

Nor iron barres a cage, 
Mindes innocent and quiet, take 

That for an hermitage : 
If I have freedom in my love, 

And in my soul am free, 
Angels alone, that soare above, 

Enjoy such libertie. 
Colonel Richard Lovelace, 1649. 



78 MARCH. 



iElarcf? 22. 

Say not, the struggle naught availeth, 
The labour and the wounds are vain, 
The enemy faints not, nor faileth, 
And as things have been they remain. 

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars ; 
It may be, in yon smoke concealed, 
Your comrades chase e'en now the flyers, 
And, but for you, possess the field. 

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, 
Seem here no painful inch to gain, 
Far back, through creeks and inlets making 
Comes silent, flooding in, the main. 

And not by eastern windows only 
When daylight comes, comes in the light 
In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, 
But westward, look, the land is bright. 

A. H. CLOUGH. 



iEarcf) 23. 

SPRING. 

Who was it that so lately said 

All pulses in thine heart were dead, 

Old Earth, that now in festal robes 

Appearest, as a bride new wed ? 

O wrapt so late in winding-sheet, 

My winding-sheet, oh ! where is fled ? 

Lo ! 'tis an emerald carpet now, 

Where the young monarch, Spring, may tread. 

All that was sleeping is awake, 

And all is living that was dead. 



MARCH. 79 



Oh ! thou who say'st thy sore heart ne'er 

With verdure can again be spread ; 

Oh ! thou who mournest them that sleep, 

Low lying in an earthly bed, 

Look out on this reviving world, 

And see new hopes within the bud. 

From Archbishop Trench's Seasons. 



jBtocfj 24. 

The whispering waves were half asleep, 
The clouds were gone to play, 

And on the woods, and on the deep, 
The smile of Heaven lay. 

It seemed as if the day were one 

Sent from beyond the skies, 
Which shed to earth above the sun 

A light of Paradise. 

Shelley, The Pine Forest. 



Through the mossy sods and stone, 
Rain and streamlet, hurry down, 
A coming song, a rushing throng, 
Beneath the vault of heaven is blown ; 
Sweet notes of love, the speaking tone 
Of this day of Paradise, 
Resound around, beneath, above ; 
All we hope and all we love 
Finds a voice in the sweet strain 
Which wakens hill, and wood, and vale. 

Shelley. 



8o MARCH. 



iBarcf? 25. 

Gabriel, from the Heaven descending, 
On the faithful Word attending, 
Is in holy converse blending 

With the Virgin full of grace : 
That good word and sweet he plighteth 
In the bosom where it lighteth, 
And for Eva Ave writeth, 

Changing Eva's name and race. 

At the promise that he sendeth 

God the Incarnate Word descendeth ; 

Yet no carnal touch offendeth 

Her, the undefined one, 
She without a father, beareth, 
She no bridal union shareth, 
And a painless birth declareth 

That she bare the Royal Son. 

Tale that wondering search entices ! 
But believe, — and that suffices ; 
It is not for man's devices 

Here to pry with gaze unmeet : 
High the sign, its place assuming 
In the bush, the unconsuming : 
Mortal, veil thine eyes presuming, 

Loose thy shoes from off thy feet. 

As the rod, by wondrous power, 
Moistened not by dew or shower, 
Bare the almond and the flower, 

Thus He came the Virgin's Fruit : 
Hail the Fruit, O world, with gladness ! 
Fruit of joy and not of sadness : 
Adam had not lapsed to madness 

Had he tasted of its shoot. 



MARCH. 81 



Jesus, kind above all other, 
Gentle Child of gentle Mother, 
In the stable born our Brother, 

Whom the angelic hosts adore : 
He, once cradled in a manger, 
Heal our sin and calm our danger ; 
For our life, to this world stranger, 

Is in peril evermore. 

Adam of St. Victor. 

Trans, by J. M. Neale. 



Jftarcf? 26. 

PER PACEM AD LUCEM. 

I DO not ask, O Lord, that life may be 

A pleasant road ; 
I do not ask that Thou wouldst take from me 

Aught of its load ; 
I do not ask that flowers should always spring 

Beneath my feet : 
I know too well the poison and the sting 

Of things too sweet. 
For one thing only, Lord, dear Lord, I plead, 

Lead me aright : 
Tho' strength should falter, and tho' heart should 
bleed, 

Through Peace to Light. 
I do not ask, O Lord, that Thou shouldst shed 

Full radiance here ; 
Give but a ray of peace, that I may tread 

Without a fear. 
I do not ask my cross to understand, 

My way to see — 
Better in darkness just to feel Thy Hand, 

And follow Thee. 

G / 



82 MARCH. 



Joy is like restless day, but peace divine 

Like quiet night : 
Lead me, O Lord, till perfect day shall shine 

Through Peace to Light. 

Adelaide Proctor. 

iBarcf? 27. 

For what so strong, 
But wanting rest, will also want of might ! 
The sunne, that measures heaven all day long, 
At night doth baite his steedes the ocean waves 
among. 

Then with the sunne take, sir, your timely rest, 
And with new day new worke at once begin ; 
Untroubled night, they say, gives counsell best. 
Spenser's Faerie Queene, 
Canto I., part of verses 32 and jj. 



ittarcf) 28. 
PRESUMPTION. 

Hkav'n from all creatures hides the book of Fate, 
All but the page prescrib'd, their present state : 
From brutes what men, from men what spirits 

know : 
Or who could suffer being here below ? 
The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, 
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play? 
Pleas'd to the last, he crops the flowery food, 
And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood. 
Oh blindness to the future ! kindly giv'n, 
That each may fill the circle mark'd by Heav'n : 
Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, 



MARCH. S3 



A hero perish, or a sparrow fall, 
Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd, 
And now a bubble burst, and now a world. 
Hope humbly then ; with trembling pinions soar ; 
Wait the great teacher Death, and God adore, 
What future bliss, He gives not thee to know, 
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. 
Hope springs eternal in the human breast : 
Man never Is, but always To be blest : 
The soul uneasy and confin'd from home 
Rests and expatiates in a life to come. 

Lo, the poor Indian ! whose untutor'd mind 
Sees God in clouds, or hears Him in the wind ; 
His soul, proud science never taught to stray 
Far as the solar walk, or milky way : 
Yet simple nature to his hope has giv'n, 
Behind the cloud-topt hill, a humbler heav'n ; 
Some safer world in depth of woods embrac'd, 
Some happier island in the wat'ry waste, 
Where slaves once more their native land behold, 
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. 
To Be, contents his natural desire, 
He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire ; 
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, 
His faithful dog shall bear him company. 

Go, wiser thou ! and in thy scale of sense, 
Weigh thy opinion against Providence ; 
Call imperfection what thou fancy'st such, 
Say, Here He gives too little, there too much ; 
Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust, 
Yet cry, if man's unhappy, God's unjust ; 
If man alone engross not Heav'n's high care, 
Alone made perfect here, immortal there : 
Snatch from His Hand the balance and the rod, 
Rejudge His justice, be the God of God. 



84 MARCH. 



In Pride, in reas'ning pride, our error lies ; 
AU quit their sphere, and rush into the skies. 
Pride still is aiming at the bless'd abodes, 
Men would be angels, angels would be gods. 
Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell, 
Aspiring to be angels, men rebel : 
And who but wishes to invert the laws 
Of Order, sins against the Eternal Cause. 

Pope, Essay on Man. 

fftarcf) 29. 

CONVERSATION. 

Conversation is but carving : 
( rive no more to every guest 
Than he's able to digest ; 
(ii\c him always of the prime, 
And but little at a time ; 
( live to all but just enough, 
Let them neither starve nor stuff, 
And that each may have his due, 
Let your neighbour cane for you. 

Walter Scott. 

ftfarcf? 30. 

A FALSE STEP. 

Sweet, thou hast trod on a heart. 

Pass ! there's a world full of men, 
And women as fair as thou art 

Must do such things now and then. 

Thou only hast stepped unaware, 
Malice not one can impute ; 

And why should a heart have been there 
In the way of a fair woman's foot ? 



MARCH. 85 



It was not a stone that could trip, 
Nor was it a thorn that could rend : 

Put up thy proud underlip ! 
'Twas merely the heart of a friend. 

And yet peradventure one day 
Thou, sitting alone at the glass, 

Remarking the bloom gone away, 

Where the smile in its dimplement was, 

And seeking around thee in vain 

From hundreds who flattered before, 

Such a word as, " Oh, not in the main 
Do I hold thee less precious, but more !" 

Thou'lt sigh, very like, on thy part, 
" Of all I have known or can know, 
I wish I had only that Heart 
I trod upon ages ago !" 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



iBarcf? 31. 

THE NIGHTINGALES. 

" How glorious were the nightingales last night, 
'Neath the dim April, warm, half-moonlit sky ! 
As from wood choirs and temples of delight, 
The dewy streamside grass, the black thorn nigh, 
They poured their melody." 

" Indeed ! I heard it not ! I looked around, 
And deemed that night and silence had their fill ; 
From forest, fallow, distant lane, no sound 
Save the dull dronings of the water mill : 

The nightingales were still" 



86 MARCH. 



O dull of ear to hear ! but mark thou this : 
My ears were sharpened by a bed of pain ; 
Thus, out of sorrow God works often bliss, 
And that flits by, and this shall still remain : 

The nightingales no strain ! ! ! " 

But sursutn corda .' may it not be so 
That those sweet strains on Jordan's further side, 
Unheard by souls who only this world know, 
May yet to them not wholly be denied 

Who drink the cup of woe ? 
J. M. Neale. 



APRIL. 87 



april 1. 

THE SUCCESSOR OF THE FOURE SWEETE MONTHS. 

First April, she with mellow showers 
Opens the way for early flowers ; 
Then after her comes smiling May, 
In a more riche and sweete array ; 
Next enters June, and brings us more 
Jems than those two that went before : 
Then lastly, July comes, and she 
More wealth brings in than all those three. 
HERRICK, Hesperidcs. 



gprit 2. 

EARLY SPRING. 

I HEARD a thousand blended notes, 
While in a grove I sat reclined, 

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 
Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 

To her fair works did Nature link 
The human soul that thro' me ran ; 

And much it grieved my heart to think 
What man has made of man. 

Thro' primrose tufts, in that green bower, 
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths : 

And 'tis my faith that every flower 
Enjoys the air it breathes. 






88 APRIL. 



The birds around me hopped and played, 
Their thoughts I cannot measure : — 

But the least motion which they made. 
It seemed a thrill of pleasure. 

The budding twigs spread out their fan, 

To catch the breezy air ; 
And I must think, do all I can, 

That there was pleasure there. 

If this belief from Heaven be sent, 

If such be Nature's holy plan, 
Have I not reason to lament 

What man has made of man ? 

Wordsworth. 



3pril 3. 

Lie not ; but let thy heart be true to Cod, 
Thy mouth to it, thy actions to them both : 
Cowards tell lies, and those that fear the rod ; 
The stormie working soul spits lies and froth. 
Dare to be true. Nothing can need a ly : 
A fault, which needs it most, grows two thereby. 

Flie idlenesse, which yet thou canst not flie 
By dressing, mistressing, and complement. 
If those take up thy day, the sunne will crie 
Against thee, for his light was onely lent. 

God gave thy soul brave wings ; put not those 
feathers 

Into a bed, to sleep out all ill weathers. 



APRIL. 89 



By all means use sometimes to be alone. 

Salute thyself : see what thy soul doth wear. 

Dare to look in thy chest ; for 'tis thine own : 

And tumble up and down what thou find'st there. 
Who cannot rest till he good fellows finde, 
He breaks up house, turns out of doores his mind. 
George Herbert, The Church Porch. 



april 4. 

TO MY SWEET SAVIOUR. 

Night hath no wings to him that cannot sleep ; 
And Time seems then not for to flie, but creep ; 
Slowly her chariot drives, as if that she 
Had broke her wheele, or crackt her axeltree. 
Just so it is with me, who list'ning, pray 
The winds to blow the tedious night away, 
That I might see the cheerfull peeping day. 
Sick is my heart ; O Saviour ! do Thou please 
To make my bed soft in my sicknesses ; 
Lighten my candle, so that I beneath 
Sleep not for ever in the vaults of death ; 
Let me Thy Voice betimes i' th' morning heare, 
Call, and I'le come : say Thou the when and where. 
Draw me but first, and after Thee I'le run, 
And make no one stop till my race be done. 

Herrick, Noble Numbers. 



april 5. 

THE GOOD SHEPHERD WITH THE KID. 

He saves the sheep, the goats he doth not save. 
So rang Tertullian's sentence, on the side 
Of that unpitying Phrygian sect which cried, 
"Him can no fount of fresh forgiveness lave, 



90 ' APRIL. 



Who sins, once wash'd by the baptismal wave." 
So spake the fierce Tertullian. But she sigh'd, 
The infant Church ! of love she felt the tide 
Stream on her from her Lord's yet recent grave. 

And then she smiled, and in the Catacombs, 
With eye suffused but heart inspired true, 
On those walls subterranean, where she hid 

Her head 'mid ignominy, death and tombs, 
She her Good Shepherd's hasty image drew — 
And on His shoulders, not a lamb, a kid. 

Matthew Arnold. 



3pril 6. 

THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL. 

On the cross the dying Saviour 
Heavenward lifts His eyelids calm, 

Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling 
In His pierced and bleeding palm. 

And by all the world forsaken, 
Sees He how with zealous care 

At the ruthless nail of iron 
A little bird is striving there. 

Stained with blood and never tiring, 
With its beak it doth not cease, 

From the cross 't would free the Saviour, 
Its Creator's Son release. 

And the Saviour speaks in mildness : 
" Blest be thou of all the good ! 
Bear as token of this moment, 
Marks of blood and holy rood ! " 



APRIL. 91 



And that bird is called the Crossbill ; 

Covered all with blood so clear 
In the groves of pine it singeth 

Songs, like legends, strange to hear. 

Longfellow, from the German 
of Julius Mo sen. 



gpril 7- 

REX TRAGICUS. 

PUT off thy robe of purple ; then go on 
To the sad place of execution : 
Thine hour is come, and the tormentor stands 
Ready to pierce Thy tender feet and hands. 
Long before this the base, the dull, the rude, 
Th' inconstant, and unpurged multitude, 
Yawne for thy coming ; some e'er this time crie, 
How He deferres, how loath He is to die ! 
Amongst this scumme, the souldier, with his speare, 
And that soure fellow, with his vinegar, 
His spunge, and stick, do ask why Thou dost stay ? 
So do the skurfe and bran too. Go thy way, 
Thy way, Thou guiltlesse man, and satisfie 
By thine approach, each their beholding eye. 
Not as a thief shalt Thou ascend the mount, 
But like a person of some high account. 

Thou art He 
Whom all the flux of nations comes to see ; 
Not those poor theeves that act their parts with 

Thee : 
Those act without regard, when once a King 
And God, as Thou art, comes to suffering. 
No, no, this scene from Thee takes life and sense, 
And soule and spirit plot, and excellence. 



92 



APRIL. 



Why then begin Great King ! ascend Thy throne, 
And thence proceed to act Thy passion 
To such an height, to such a period rais'd, 
As hell, and earth, and Heav'n may stand amaz'd, 
God, and good angells guide Thee, and so blesse 
Thee in Thy severall parts of bitternesse, 
That those who see Thee nail'd unto the tree, 
May, tho' they scorn Thee, praise and pitie Thcc. 
And we, Thy lovers, while we see Thee keep 
The lawes of action, will both sigh and weep, 
And bring our spices to embalme Thee dead : 
That done, we'll see Thee sweetly buried. 

HERRICK, Noble X umbers. 



2pril 8. 

DEATH CAME IX. 

And a new spirit from that hour came o'er 
The race of Cain : soft idlesse was no more, 
But even the sunshine had a heart of care, 
Smiling with hidden dread — a mother fair 
Who folding to her breast a dying child 
Beams with feigned joy that but makes sadness mild. 
Death was now lord of Life, and at his word 
Time, vague as air before, new terrors stirred, 
With measured wing now audibly arose 
Throbbing thro' all things to some unknown close. 

It seemed the light was never loved before, 
Now each man said : '"Twill go and come no more. ; ' 
No budding branch, no pebble from the brook, 
No form, no shadow, but new dearness took 
From the one thought, that life must have an end ; 
And the last parting now began to send 



APRIL. 93 



Diffusive dread thro' love and wedded bliss, 
Thrilling them into finer tenderness. 
Then Memory disclosed her face divine, 
That like the calm nocturnal lights doth shine 
Within the soul, and shows the sacred graves, 
And shows the presence that no sunlight craves, 
No space, no warmth, but moves among them all ; 
Gone and yet here, and coming at each call, 
With ready voice and eyes that understand, 
And lips that ask a kiss, and dear responsive hand. 
Thus to Cain's race death was tear-watered seed 
Of various life and action-shaping need. 

George Eliot, The Legend of Jubal. 



3pril 9. 

EASTER DAY. 

The foe behind, the deep before, 

Our hosts have dared and past the sea 

And Pharaoh's warriors strew the shore, 
And Israel's ransomed tribes are free. 

Lift up, lift up, your voices now ! 
The whole wide world rejoices now : 
The Lord hath triumphed gloriously : 
The Lord shall reign victoriously ! 

Happy morrow, turning sorrow 

Into peace and mirth ! 
Bondage ending, love descending 

O'er the earth. 
Seals assuring, guards securing, 

Watch His earthly prison : 
Seals are shattered, guards are scattered, 

Christ hath risen. 



94 APRIL. 



No longer must the mourners weep, 
Nor call departed Christians dead ; 

For death is hallowed into sleep, 
And every grave becomes a bed. 

Now once more Eden's door 
Open stands to mortal eyes ; 
For Christ hath risen, and man shall rise. 

Now at last, all things past, 
Hope and joy and peace begin : 
For Christ hath won, and man shall win. 

It is not exile, rest on high ; 

It is not sadness, peace from strife : 
To fall asleep is not to die : 

To dwell with Christ is better life. 

Where our banner leads us, we may safely go : 
Where our Chief precedes us, we may face the foe : 
His right Arm is o'er us, He our guide will be : 
Christ hath gone before us ; Christians, follow ye ! 

He shall soon deliver from every woe, 
Alleluia, 
If His paths ye tread : 
Pleasures as a river, shall round you flow. 
Alleluia, 
Where ye see your Head. 

With loins upgirt, and staff in hand, 
And hasty mien, and sandalled feet, 

Around the Paschal Feast we stand, 
And of the Paschal Lamb we cat. 

So shall He collect us, direct us, protect us, 

From Egypt's strand : 
So shall He precede us, and feed us, and lead us 

To Canaan's land. 



APRIL. 95 

Toils and foes assailing, friends quailing, hearts 
failing, 

Shall threat in vain : 
If He be providing, presiding, and guiding 

To Him again. 
Christ our Leader, Monarch, Pleader, Interceder, 

Praise we and adore : 
Exultation, veneration, gratulation, 

Bringing evermore. 

Once despised, and once rejected, 

Was this stone ; that now, elected, 

To a corner-stone perfected, 

As a glorious trophy stands erected. Amen. 

J. M. Neale. 



Spril 10. 

THE LAMB. 

Little lamb, who made thee ? 
Dost thou know who made thee, 
Gave thee life and bade thee feed 
By the stream and o'er the mead ; 
Gave thee clothing of delight, 
Softest clothing, woolly, bright ; 
Gave thee such a tender voice, 
Making all the vales rejoice ? 

Little lamb, who made thee ? 

Dost thou know who made thee ? 



96 APRIL. 



Little lamb, I'll tell thee ; 

Little lamb, I'll tell thee : 
He is called by thy name, 
For He calls Himself a Lamb, 
He is meek, and He is mild, 
He became a little child. 
I a child and thou a lamb, 
We are called by His name. 

Little lamb, God bless thee ! 

Little lamb, God bless thee ! 

William Blake. 



9pril 1 1. 

THE BOY AND THE ANGEL. 

MORNING, evening, noon, and night, 
" Praise God," sang Theocrite. 

Then to his poor trade he turned, 
Whereby the daily meal was earned. 

Hard he laboured, long and well ; 
O'er his work the boy's curls fell. 

But ever, at each period, 

He stopped, and sang, "Praise God !" 

Then back again his curls he threw, 
And cheerful turned to work anew. 

Said Blaise, the listening monk, "Well done ; 
I doubt not thou art heard, my son ; 

"As well as if thy voice to-day 
Were praising God, the Pope's great way. 

"This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome 
Praises God from Peter's dome." 



APRIL. 97 



Said Theocrite, " Would God that I 

Might praise Him, that great way, and die !" 

Night passed, day shone, 
And Theocrite was gone. 

With God a day endures alway, 
A thousand years are but a day. 

God said in heaven, " Nor day nor night 
Now brings the voice of my delight." 

Then Gabriel, like a rainbow's birth, 
Spread his wings and sank to earth ; 

Entered in flesh, the empty cell, 

Lived there, and played the craftsman well ; 



Praised God in place of Theocrite. 

And from a boy, to youth he grew : 
The man put off the stripling's hue : 

The man matured and fell away 
Into the season of decay ; 

And ever over the trade he bent, 
And ever lived on earth content. 

(He did God's will ; to him, all one 
If on the earth or in the sun.) 

God said, "A praise is in Mine ear ; 
There is no doubt in it, no fear ; 

: So sing old worlds, and so 
New worlds that from my footstool go. 

: Clearer loves sound other ways : 
I miss my little human praise. ' 
H 



98 ATRIL. 



Then sprang forth Gabriel's wings, off fell 
The flesh disguise, remained the cell. 

Twas Easter Day ; he flew to Rome, 
And paused above Saint Peters dome. 

In the tiring room close by 
The great outer gallery, 

With his holy vestments (light, 
Stood the new Tope, Thcocrite : 

And all his past career 
Came back upon him clear, 

Since when, a boy, he plied his trade, 
Till in his life the sickness weighed ; 

And in his cell, when death drew near, 
An angel in a dream brought cheer : 

And rising from the sickness drear 
lie grew a priest, and now stood here. 

To the cast with praise he turned, 
And in his sight the angel burned. 

" I bore thee from thy craftsman's cell, 
And set thee here ; I did not well. 

" Vainly I left my angcl-sphcrc, 
Vain was thy dream of many a year. 

''Thy voice's praise seemed weak ; it dropped- 
Crcation's chorus stopped ! 

"Go back and praise again 
The early way, while I remain. 

"With that weak voice of our disdain, 
Take up creation's pausing strain. 



APRIL. 99 



" Back to the ceil and poor employ : 
Resume the craftsman and the boy !" 

Theocrite grew old at home ; 

A new Pope dwelt in Peter's dome. 

One vanished as the other died : 
They sought God side by side. 

R. Browning. 



gpril 12. 

The forward violet thus did I chide ; — 

Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that 

smells, 
If not from my love's breath ? The purple pride 
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells, 
In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dy'd. 
The lily I condemned for thy hand, 
And buds of marjoram had stolen thy hair : 
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, 
One blushing shame, another white despair ; 
A third, nor red nor white, had stolen of both, 
And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath ; 
But for his theft, in pride of all his growth 
A vengeful canker eat him up to death. 

More flowers I noted, yet I none could see, 
But sweet or colour it had stolen from thee. 
Shakespeare, Sonnet XCIX. 



9pril 13. 

We live together years and years, 

And leave unsounded still 
Each other's springs of hopes and fears 

Each other's depths of will. 



■\PRIL. 



We live together day by clay, 

And some chance look or tone 
Lights up with instantaneous ray 

An inner world unknown. 

Then wonder not that those who love 

The longest and the best, 
Arc parted by some sudden move 

Of passion and unrest. 

Lord Houghton. 



9pril 14. 

" In 1 past's our own : 
No fiend can take that from US ! . . . 

Ill be patient, — 
Here's something yet more wretched than myself. 

. . . How am I wretched? 
The happiness thou hast from me, is mine, 
And makes me happy. Ay, there lies the secret — 
Could we but crush that ever-craving lust 
For bliss, which kills all bliss, and lose our life, 
Our barren unit life, to find again 
A thousand lives in those for whom we die, 
So were we men and women, and should hold 
Our rightful rank in God's great universe, 
Wherein, in heaven and earth, by will or nature, 
Nought lives for self — All— all — from crown to 

footstool — 
The Lamb, before the world's foundations slain — 
The angels, ministers to God's elect — 
The sun, who only shines to light a world — 
The clouds, whose glory is to die in showers — 
The fleeting streams, who in their ocean graves 



APRIL. 101 



Flee the decay of stagnant self-content — 
The oak, ennobled by the shipwright's axe— 
The soil, which yields its marrow to the flower — 
The flower, which feeds a thousand velvet worms, 
Born only to be prey for every bird — 
All spend themselves for others : and shall man, 
Earth's rosy blossom — image of his God — 
Whose twofold being is the mystic knot 
Which couples earth and Heaven— doubly bound 
As being both worm and angel, to that service 
By which both worms and angels hold their life, 
Shall he, whose every breath is debt on debt, 
Refuse, without some hope of further wage 
Which he calls Heaven, to be what God has made 

him ? 
No ! let him show himself the creature's lord 
By freewill gift of that self-sacrifice 
Which they perforce by nature's law must suffer. 

C. KlNGSLEY, The Saint's Tragedy. 



april 15. 

THE RULING PASSION. 

NOT always actions show the man : we find 
Who does a kindness, is not therefore kind : 
Perhaps prosperity becalm'd his breast, 
Perhaps the wind just shifted from the east : 
Not therefore humble he who seeks retreat, 
Pride guides his steps, and bids him shun the 

great ; 
Who combats bravely is not therefore brave, 
He dreads a deathbed like the meanest slave : 
Who reasons wisely is not therefore wise, 
His pride in reasoning, not in acting lies. 



102 APRIL. 



But grant that actions best discover man ; 
Take the most strong, and sort them as you can. 

Search then the Ruling Passion : there alone 
The wild are constant and the cunning known ; 
The fool consistent, and the false sincere ; 
Priests, princes, women, no dissemblers here. 

Time that on all things lays his lenient hand, 
Yet tames not this, it sticks to our last sand. 

"Odious ! in woollen ! 'twould a saint provoke !" 
(Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke ;) 

" No, let a charming chintz, and Brussels lace, 
Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless fare : 
One would not, sure, be frightful when ones dead — 
And — Petty — give this cheek a little red." 
The courtier smooth, who forty years had shin'd 
A humble servant to .all human kind. 
Just brought out this, when scarce his tongue 
could stir : 

" If— where I'm going — I could serve you, sir?" — 

" I give and I devise," fid Euclio said, 
(And sigh'd) " my lands and tenements to Ned." 
Your money, sir? — u My money, sir ; what— all? 
Why, if I must" — (then wept) "I give it Paul." 
The manor, sir? — "The manor ! hold," he cry'd, 

"Not that, — I cannot part with that," and dy'd. 
And you, brave Cobharn, to the latest breath, 
Shall feel your ruling passion strong in death . 
Such in those moments as in all the past, 

"Oh, save my country, lleav'n!" shall be your 
last 

Pope, Moral Essays. 



APRIL. 103 



april 16. 

THE HAPPY WARRIOR. 

WHO is the happy warrior ? Who is he 
That every man in arms should wish to be ? 
— It is the generous spirit, who when brought 
Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought 
Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought : 
Whose high endeavours are an inward light 
That makes the path before him always bright : 
Who, with a natural instinct to discern 
What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn ; 

Who, doomed to go in company with pain, 
And fear, and bloodshed, miserable train ! 
Turns his necessity to glorious gain ; 
In face of these doth exercise a power 
Which is our human nature's highest dower ; 
Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves 
Of their bad influence, and their good receives : 

Is placable, because occasions rise 

So often that demand such sacrifice ; 

More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure, 

As tempted more ; more able to endure, 

As more exposed to suffering and distress ; 

Thence also, more alive to tenderness. 

Whose powers shed round him in the common strife, 

Or mild concerns of ordinary life, 

A constant influence, a peculiar grace : 

But who if he be called upon to face 

Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined 

Great issues, good or bad for human kind, 

Is happy as a lover ; and attired 



104 ATRIL. 



With sudden brightness, like a man inspired ; 
And thro' the heat of conflict, keeps the law 
In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw ; 
Or if an unexpected call succeed, 
Come when it will, is equal to the need. 

Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth 
For ever, and to noble deeds give birth, 
Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame, 
And leave a dead unprofitable name — 
Finds comfort in himself and in his cause ; 
And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws 
His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause: 
This is the happy warrior ; this is he 
That every man in arms bhould wish to be. 

WORDsWORTH. 



-Hpnl 17- 

Mysterious Night ! when our first parent knew 
Thee from report divine, and heard thy name, 
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, 
This glorious canopy of light and blue? 
Yet 'neath a curtain of translucent dew. 
Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, 
Hesperus with the host of heaven came, 
And lo ! Creation widened in man's view. 
Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed 
Within thy beams, Sun ! or who could find, 
Whilst fly anil leaf and insect stood revealed, 
That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind ! 
Why do we then shun Death with anxious strife? 
If Light can thus deceive, wherefore not Life? 

Blanxo White. 



APRIL. 105 



april 18. 

BY THE SEA. 

Why does the sea moan evermore ? 

Shut out from heaven it makes its moan, 

It frets against the boundary shore : 
All earth's full rivers cannot fill 
The sea, that drinking thirsteth still. 

Sheer miracles of loveliness 

Lie hid in its unlooked-on bed ; 

Anemones, salt, passionless, 

Blow flower-like ; just enough alive 
To blow and multiply and thrive. 

Shells quaint with curve, or spot, or spike, 
Encrusted live things argus-eyed, 

All fair alike, yet all unlike, 

Are born without a pang, and die 
Without a pang, and so pass by. 

Christina Rossetti. 



2pril 19. 

The pathos exquisite of lovely minds 

Hid in harsh forms, — not penetrating them, 

Like fire divine within a common bush 

Which grows transfigured by the heavenly guest. 

I too rest in faith 
That man's perfection is the crowning flower 
Toward which the urgent sap in life's great tree 



io6 APRIL. 



Is pressing, — seen in living blossoms now, 
But in the world's great morrows to expand 
With broadest petal and with deepest glow . . . 
The faith that life on earth is being shaped 
To glorious ends ; that order, justice, love 
Mean mans completeness, mean effect as sure 
As roundness in the dew-drop — that great faith 
Is but the rushing and expanding stream 
Of thought, of feeling, fed by all the past. 

George Eliot {How Lisa loved the King). 



9pril 20. 

Ail. fair things have soft approaches, 

Quiet steps are still the same ; 

It were hard to point aright 

At what instant morning light, 

Shy and solemn-paced, encroaches 

On the desolate obscure ; — 

Who can read the growth of flowers 

Syllable by syllable ? 

Who has bight or ear to tell, 

Or by moments or by hours, 

At what rate the sappy tree, 

Full of life, and life in spring, 

Every sleekest limb embosses 

With the buds its vigour glosses, — 

At what rate the buds with glee 

Burst, and show the tender wing 

Of the leaf that hardly dares 

Trust to inexperienced airs ? 

Who can measure out the pace 

Of the smiles on Nature's face? 



APRIL. 107 



Thou loveliest of the thoughts of God, 

Creation's antitype and end ! 

Thou treadest so the vernal sod 

That slimmest grasses hardly bend \— 

I feel thy presence sensible 

On my ideal supervene, 

Yet just the moment cannot tell 

That lies those two bright states between ; — 

No memory has an arm to reach 

The morning twilight of our thought, 

The infant's use of sight and speech 

Is all unchallenged and unsought ; 

And yet thou askest, winning one, 

That I should now unriddler be, 

To tell thee when I first begun 

To love and honour thee ! 



Lord Houghton, 



SJpril 21. 

A dewdrop falling on the wild sea wave, 
Exclaimed in fear — " I perish in this grave ;" 
But in a shell received, that drop of dew 
Unto a pearl of marv'llous beauty grew : 
And, happy now, the grace did magnify 
Which thrust it forth — as it had feared — to die ; 
Until again, " I perish quite," it said, 
Torn by rude diver from its ocean bed : 
O unbelieving ! — so it came to gleam 
Chief jewel in a monarch's diadem. 

Archbishop Trench. 



ioS APRIL. 



9prtl 22. 

A MORNING PRESENT OF SPRING FLOWERS. 

The east wind slept last night (oh be its rest 

As deep as death and long ! , and with the morn 

The soft fresh breath of April from the west 

Came blithely whispering, "Spring at last is born." 

I woke and heard it : longing to rejoice, 

Yet did I listen with a faithless ear. 

"Often the breezes have a mocking voire, 

Too glad the sound for truth," said Doubt and Fear, 

When, Ida, in there came so sweet a breath, 

And then so fair a vision, of your flowers, 

I cried, "O Doubt, 1 doom thee now to Death : 

These must be heralds of the happier hours, 

Such sound and scent and sight 00 surely bring 

Authentic proof of veritable Sprin 

S. J. Stone. 



9pril 23. 

the FLY. 

BUSY, curious, thirsty fly, 
Drink with me, and drink as I ; 
Freely welcome to my cup, 
Couldst thou sip, and sip it up ; 
Make the most of life you may, 
Life is short, and wears away. 

Both alike, both thine and mine, 
Hasten quick to their decline ; 
Thine's a summer, mine's no more, 
Though repeated to fourscore : 
Threescore summers, when they're gone, 
Will appear as short as one. 

W. Oldys. 



APRIL. 



109 



8pril 24. 

DIRGE. 

If thou wilt ease thy heart, 
Of love and all its smart, 

Then sleep, dear, sleep : 

And not a sorrow 
Hang any tear on your eyelashes : 

Lie still and sleep, 
Sad soul, until the sea wave washes 
The rim of the sun to-morrow 

In the Eastern sky. 

But wilt thou cure thine heart, 
Of love and all its smart, 

Then die, dear, die : 

'Tis deeper, sweeter, 
Than on a rose-bank to lie dreaming 

With folded eye : 
And then alone, amid the beaming 
Of love's stars, thou'lt meet her 

In the Eastern sky. 

Thomas Lovell Beddoes. 



april 25. 

He who wintry hours hath given, 
With the snow gives snowdrops birth 
And while angels sing in heaven 
God hears the robins sing on earth. 

Only keep thee on the wing, 
Music dieth in the dust, 
Nothing but that creeps can sing, 
Soaring, we can sing and trust. 



APRIL. 



9pril 26. 

The bud on the bough, 

The song of the bird, 

The blue river-reaches 

By soft breeze stirred ; 
Oh soul, and hast thou found again thy treasure ? 
Oh world, and art thou once more filled with pleasure ? 

Oh world, hast thou passed 

Thy sad winter again ? 

Oh soul, hast thou cast 

Thy dull vesture of pain ? 
Oh winter ! sad wert thou and full of sorrow ! 
Oh soul ! oh world, the summer comes to-morrow ! 

Oh soul ! 'tis love quickens 

Time's languorous feet ; 

Oh world ! 'tis Spring wakens 

Thy fair blossoms sweet ; 
Fair world, fair soul, that lie so close together, 
Each with sad wintry days and fair spring weather ! 

GWEN. 

9pril 27. 

There is a wound within me, 'tis a wound 
That lies too deep for tears, and many a while, 
While all that is around me seems to smile, 
Within my heart of hearts a knell doth sound, 
Not of this world ; a cloud dark and profound 
Is o'er me, and though brighter thoughts beguile, 
And, like the sun behind a cloudy pile, 
Bright gleams from One beyond that cloud have 

bound, 
Yet 'tis a cloud, for I have pierced deep 
The side of One that must be All in All. 



APRIL. in 



In this dread calm, if unto Thee I call, 
'Tis not that Thou my wounded soul would'st steep 
With aught of gladness ; but that I, through Thee, 
May daily put me on more deep humility. 

Isaac Williams, {The Golden Valley). 



april 28. 

SUGGESTIONS AS TO PREACHING. 

On every priest a twofold care attends, 

To prove his talents, and insure his friends : 

First, of the first, — your stores at once produce, 

And bring your reading to its proper use : 

On doctrines dwell, and every point enforce 

By quoting much, the scholar's sure resource ; 

For he alone can show us on each head 

What ancient schoolmen and sage fathers said : 

No worth has knowledge, if you fail to show 

How well you studied, and how much you know : 

Is faith your subject, and you judge it right 

On theme so dark to cast a ray of light ; 

Be it that faith the orthodox maintain, 

Found in the rubric, what the creeds explain ; 

Fail not to show us on this ancient faith 

(And quote the passage) what some martyr saith ! 

Dwell not one moment on a faith that shocks. 

That starving faith, that would our tables clear, 
And make one dreadful Lent of all the year : 

Your nobler faith, in loftier style convey'd, 
Shall be with praise and admiration paid : 
On points like these your hearers all admire 
A preacher's depth, and nothing more require ; 



U2 APRIL. 



Shall we a studious youth to college send, 
That every clown his words may comprehend ? 
Tis for your glory, when your hearers own 
Your learning matchless, but the sense unknown. 
Thus honour gain'd, learn now to gain a friend : 
And the sure way is — never to offend ; 
For, James, consider — what your neighbours do 
Is their own business, and concerns not you : 
Shun all resemblance to that forward race 
Who preach of sins before a sinner's face ; 
And seem as if they overlooked a pew, 
Only to drag a failing man in view : 
Much should I feel, when groaning in disease, 
If a rough hand upon my limb should seize ; 
But great my anger, if this hand were found 
The very doctor's, who should make it sound : 
So feel our minds, young Priest, so doubly feel, 
When hurt by those whose office is to heal. 

Yet of our duties you must something tell, 
And must at times on sin and frailty dwell ; 
Here you may preach in easy, flowing style, 
How errors cloud us, and how sins defile : 
Here bring persuasive hopes and figures forth, 
To show the poor that wealth is nothing worth ; 
That they, in fact, possess an ample share 
Of the world's good, and feel not half its care : 
Give them this comfort, and indeed my gout 
In its full vigour causes me some doubt : 
And let it always, for your zeal, suffice 
That vice you combat, in the abstract, vice : 
The very captious will be quiet then ; 
We all confess we are offending men : 
In lashing sin, of every stroke beware, 
For sinners feel, and sinners you must spare ; 
In general satire, every man perceives 
A slight attack, yet neither fears nor grieves ; 



APRIL. 113 



But name th' offence, and you absolve the rest, 
And point the dagger at a single breast. 

Yet there are sinners of a class so low, 
That you with safety may the lash bestow : 
Poachers, and drunkards, idle rogues, who feed 
At others' cost, a mark'd correction need : 
And all the better sort, who see your zeal, 
Will love and reverence for their pastor feel ; 
Reverence for one who can inflict the smart, 
And love, because he deals them not a part. 

Crabbe, The Tales, XV. 



gpril 29. 

DAFFODILS. 

I WANDERED lonely as a cloud 
That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 

When all at once I saw a crowd, 
A host, of golden daffodils ; 

Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 
And twinkle on the milky way, 

They stretched in never-ending line 
Along the margin of a bay : 

Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced, but they 
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee : — 

A poet could not but be gay, 
In such a jocund company. 

I gazed, and gazed, but little thought 

What wealth the show to me had brought 
I 



ii 4 APRIL. 



For oft, when on my couch I lie 

In vacant or in pensive mood, 
They flash upon that inward eye 

Which is the bliss of solitude ; 
And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
And dances with the daffodils. 

Wordsworth. 

9pril 30. 

THE NIGHTINGALE. 

No cloud, no rclique of the sunken day 

Distinguishes the west, no long thin .slip 

( )!" sullen light, no obscure trembling hues. 

Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge ! 

You see the glimmer of the stream beneath, 

But hear no murmuring : it flows silently 

O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still, 

A balmy night ! and though the stars be dim, 

Vet let us think upon the vernal showers 

That gladden the green earth, and we shall find 

A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. 

And hark ! the nightingale begins its song, 

"Most musical, most melancholy" bird ! 

A melancholy bird ? O idle thought ! 

In nature there is nothing melancholy. 

—But some night-wand "ring man, whose heart was 

pierced 
With the remembrance of a grievous wrong, 
Or slow distemper, or neglected love, 
(And so, poor wretch ! filled all things with himself, 
And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale 
Of his own sorrows) he and such as he 
First named these notes a melancholy strain : 
And many a poet echoes the conceit : 
Poet, who hath been building up the rhyme 
When he had better far have stretched his limbs 



APRIL. 



Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell, 
By sun or moon light, to the influxes 
Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements 
Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song 
And of his fame forgetful ! so his fame 
Should share in nature's immortality, 
A venerable thing ! and so his song 
Should make all nature lovelier, and itself 
Be loved, like nature. But 'twill not be so : 
And youths and maidens most poetical, 
Who lose the deep'ning twilights of the spring 
In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still 
Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs 
O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains. 

We have learnt 
A different lore, we may not thus profane 
Nature's sweet voices always full of love 
And joyance ! 'Tis the merry nightingale 
That crowds and hurries and precipitates 
With fast thick warble his delicious notes, 
As he were fearful that an April night 
Would be too short for him to utter forth 
His love chant, and disburthen his full soul 
Of all its music ! I know a grove 
Is wild with tangling underwood, 
And the trim walks are broken up, and grass, 
Thin grass, and kingcups grow within the paths. 
But never elsewhere in one place I knew 
So many nightingales : and far and near 
In wood and thicket over the wide grove 
They answer and provoke each others' song — 
With skirmish and capricious passagings, 
And murmurs musical, and swift jug jug, 
And one low piping sound more sweet than all — 
Stirring the air with such a harmony, 
That should you close your eyes, you might almost 
Forget it was not day. 

S. T. Coleridge. 



u6 MAY. 



&W i. 

MAY MORNING. 

Now the bright morning-star, Day's harbinger, 
Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her 
The flow "ry May, who from her green lap throws 
The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose. 
Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire 
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire ! 
Woods and groves are of thy dressing ; 
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. 
Thus we salute thee with our early song, 
And welcome thee, and wish thee long. 

Milton. 



ittap 2. 

DREAM LAND. 

Where sunless rivers weep 
Their waves into the deep, 
She sleeps a charmed sleep : 

Awake her not. 
Led by a single star 
She came from very far, 
To seek where shadows are, 

Her pleasant lot. 

She left the rosy morn, 
She left the fields of corn, 
For twilight cold and lorn 
And water springs. 



MAY. 

Through sleep, as thro' a veil, 
She sees the sky look pale, 
And hears the nightingale, 
That sadly sings. 

Rest, rest, a perfect rest, 
Shed over brow and breast ; 
Her face is toward the west, 

The purple land. 
She cannot see the grain 
Ripening on hill and plain ; 
She cannot feel the rain 

Upon her hand. 

Rest, rest, for evermore 
Upon a mossy shore ; 
Rest, rest at the heart's core 

Till time shall cease : 
Sleep that no pain shall wake, 
Night that no morn shall break, 
Till joy shall overtake 

Her perfect peace. 

Christina Rossetti. 



Jfe 3. 

TO BLOSSOMS. 

Faire pledges of a fruitfull tree, 
Why doe ye fall so fast ? 
Your date is not so past, 

But you may stay yet here awhile, 
To blush and gently smile, 

And go at last. 



117 



uS MAY. 

What, were yee borne to be 

An houre or half's delight, 

And so to bid good-night ? 
Twas pitie Nature brought yee forth, 

Merely to shew your worth, 

And lose you quite. 

But you are lovely leaves, where we 
May read how soon things have 
Their end, th<>* ne'er so brave ; 

And after they have shown their pride 
Like you awhile, they glide 

Into the grave. 

Herrick, Hesperides. 



SONG OF HESPERI'^. 

QUEEN and huntress, chaste and fair, 
Now the sun is laid to sleep, 
Seated in thy silver chair, 
State in wonted manner keep : 
Hesperus entreats thy light, 
Goddess, excellently bright. 

Earth, let not thy envious shade 

Dare itself to interpose ; 

Cynthia's shining orb was made 

lleav'n to clear, when day did close : 
Bless us then with wished sight, 
Goddess excellently bright. 



MAY. 119 

Lay thy bow of pearl apart, 
And thy crystal shining quiver ; 
Give unto the flying hart 
Space to breathe, how short soever. 

Thou that mak'st a day of night, 

Goddess excellently bright. 

Ben Jonson, Cynthia's Revels, 



I cannot tell what you say, green leaves, 

I cannot tell what you say ; 
But I know that there is a spirit in you, 

And a word in you this day. 

I cannot tell what you say, rosy rocks, 

I cannot tell what you say ; 
But I know that there is a spirit in you, 

And a word in you this day. 

I cannot tell what you say, brown streams, 

I cannot tell what you say ; 
But I know that in you too a spirit doth live, 

And a word doth speak this day. 

" Oh green is the colour of faith and truth, 
And rose the colour of love and youth, 

And brown of the fruitful clay. 
Sweet earth is faithful, and fruitful, and young, 
And her bridal day shall come ere long, 
And you shall know what the rocks and the streams 

And the whispering woodlands say." 

C. KlNGSLEY. 



MA Y. 



iBap 6. 

He that loves a rosy cheek, 

Or a coral lip admires, 
Or from star-like eyes doth seek 

Fuel to maintain his fires ; 
As old Time makes these decay, 
So his flames must waste away. 

But a smooth and stedfast mind, 
Gentle thoughts and calm desires, 

Hearts with equal love combin'd, 
Kindle never-dying fires. 

Where these are not, I despise 

Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes. 

No tears, Celia, now shall win 
My resolved heart to return ; 

I have searched thy soul within, 
And find nought but pride and scorn ; 

I have learn'd thy arts and now 

Can disdain as much as thou. 

Some pow'r in my revenge, convey 

That love to her I cast away. 

T. Carew, died 1639. 

itf ap 7. 
The stars burnt out in the pale blue air, 
And the thin white moon lay withering there, 
To tower, and cavern, and rift, and tree, 
The owl and the bat fled drowsily. 
Day had kindled the dewy woods, 
And the rocks above, and the stream below, 
And the vapours in their multitudes, 
And the Apennines' shroud of summer snow, 
And clothed with light of aery gold 
The mists in their eastern caves uprolled. 



MAY. 



Day had awakened all things that be, 

The lark and the thrush and the swallow free, 

And the milkmaid's song and the mower's scythe, 

And the matin-bell and the mountain bee ! 

Fire-flies were quenched on the dewy corn, 

Glow-worms went out on the river's brim, 

Like lamps which a student forgets to trim ; 

The beetle forgot to wind his horn, 

The crickets were still in the meadow and hill : 

Like a flock of rooks at a farmer's gun, 

Night's dreams and terrors, every one, 

Fled from the brains which are their prey, 

From the lamp's death to the morning ray. 

All rose to do the task He set to each, 

Who shaped us to his ends and not our own ; 

One million rose to learn, and one to teach 

What none yet ever knew or can be known. 

Shelley, The Boat. 



Jta 8. 

ISOLATION. TO MARGUERITE. 

We were apart, yet day by day, 
I bade my heart more constant be ; 

I bade it keep the world away, 
And grow a home for only thee ; 

Not fear'd but thy love likewise grew, 

Like mine, each day more tried, more true. 

The fault was grave ! I might have known, 
What far too soon, alas ! I learn'd- 

The heart can bind itself alone, 
And faith may oft be unreturn'd. 

Self sway'd, our feelings ebb and swell — 

Thou lov'st no more — Farewell ! farewell ! 



122 MA Y. 

Farewell ! — and thou, thou lonely heart, 
Which never yet without remorse 

Even for a moment didst depart 

From thy remote and sphered course 

To haunt the place where passions reign — 

Back to thy solitude again. 

Back ! with the conscious thrill of shame 
Which Luna felt, that summer-night, 

Flash thro' her pure immortal frame, 
When she forsook the starry height 

To hang over Endymion's sleep 

Upon the pine-grown Latmian steep. 

Yet she, chaste queen, had never proved 
How vain a thing is mortal love, 

Wandering in Heaven, far removed. 
But thou hast long had place to prove 

This truth, — to prove, and make thine own : 
" Thou hast been, shalt be, art, alone ! " 

Or if not quite alone, yet they 

Which touch thee are unmating things — 
Ocean and clouds and night and day, 

Lorn autumns and triumphant springs, 
And life, and others joy and pain, 
And love, if love, of happier men. 

Of happier men, for they at least 

Have dream' J two human hearts might blend 
In one, and were thro' faith released 

From isolation without end 
Prolong'd ; nor knew, although not less 
Alone than thou, their loneliness. 

Matthew Arnold. 



MAY. 123 



iBag 9. 

THE GLOW-WORM. 

Beneath the hedge, or near the stream, 

A worm is known to stray, 
That shows by night a lucid beam, 

Which disappears by day. 

Disputes have been, and still prevail, 
From whence his rays proceed ; 

Some give that honour to his tail, 
And others to his head. 

But this is sure, — the Hand of Night, 

That kindles up the skies, 
Gives hint a modicum of light 

Proportion'd to his size. 

Perhaps indulgent Nature meant, 

By such a lamp bestow'd, 
To bid the trav'ller as he went 

Be careful where he trode j— 

Nor crush a worm, whose useful light 

Might serve, however small, 
To show a stumbling-stone by night, 

And save him from a fall. 

Whate'er she meant, this truth divine 

Is legible and plain, 
'Tis power Almighty bids him shine, 

Nor bids him shine in vain. 

Ye proud and wealthy, let this theme 
Teach humbler thoughts to you, 

Since such a reptile has its gem, 
And boasts its splendour too ! 

Cowper. 



124 MAY. 



10. 

And art thou dead, as young and fair, 

As aught of mortal birth ; 
And form so soft, and charms so rare, 

Too soon return'd to earth ! 
Though earth received them in her bed, 
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread 

In carelessness and mirth, 
There is an eye which could not brook 
A moment on that grave to look. 

I will not ask where thou liest low, 

Nor gaze upon the spot ; 
There flowers or weeds at will may grow, 

So I behold them not : 
It is enough for me to prove 
That what I loved, and long must love, 

Like common earth can rot : 
To me there needs no stone to tell, 
'Tis Nothing that I loved so well. 

Yet did I love thee to the last 

As fervently as thou, 
Who didst not change thro' all the past, 

And canst not alter now. 
The love where death hath set his seal, 
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, 

Nor falsehood disavow : 
And what were worse, thou canst not see, 
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. 

The better days of life were ours, 

The worst can be but mine, 
The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers, 

Shall never more be thine. 



MAY. 125 

The silence of that dreamless sleep 
I envy now too much to weep ; 

Nor need I to repine 
That all those charms have passed away 
I might have watch'd through long decay. 

The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatched 

Must fall the earliest prey, 
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd 

The leaves must drop away ; 
And yet it were a greater grief 
To watch it withering, leaf by leaf, 

Than see it pluck'd to-day ; 
Since earthly eye but ill can bear 
To trace the change from foul to fair. 

I know not if I could have borne 

To see thy beauties fade ; 
The night that follow'd such a morn 

Had worn a deeper shade : 
Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd, 
And thou wert lovely to the last, 

Extinguished, not decayed ; 
As stars that shoot along the sky 

Shine brightest as they fall from high. 

As once I wept, if I could weep, 

My tears might well be shed, 
To think I was not near to keep 

One vigil by thy bed : 
To gaze, how fondly ! on thy face, 
To fold thee in a faint embrace, 

Uphold thy dying head, 
And show that love, however vain, 
Nor thou nor I can feel again. 

Yet how much less it were to gain, 



26 MAY. 

The loveliest things that still remain, 

Than thus remember thee ! 
The all of thine that cannot die 
Through dark and dread eternity 

Returns again to me, 
And more thy buried love endears 
Than aught, except its living years. 



Byron. 



fflap ii. 

A HAPPY LIFE. 

Honv happy is he born or taught, 
That serveth not another's will ; 

Whose armour is his honest thought, 
And simple truth his highest skill. 

Whose passions not his masters are ; 

Whose soul is still prepard for death ; 
Not ty'd unto the world with care 

Of prince's ear, or vulgar breath. 

Who hath his life from rumours freed ; 

Whose conscience is his strong retreat ; 
Whose state can neither flatterers feed, 

Nor ruine make oppressors great. 

Who envies none, whom chance doth raise, 
Or vice ; who never understood 

How deepest wounds are given with praise ; 
Nor rules of state, but rules of good. 

Who God doth late and early pray, 
More of His grace than gifts to lend ; 

And entertains the harmless day 
With a well chosen book or friend. 



MAY. 127 

This man is free from servile bands 

Of hope to rise, or feare to fall ; 
Lord of himselfe, though not of lands ; 

And having nothing, yet hath all. 

Sir Henry Wotton. 



Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, 

The bridal of the earth and skie : 
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night, 

For thou must die. 

Sweet rose, whose hue angrie and brave 

Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, 
Thy root is ever in its grave, 

And thou must die. 

Sweet spring, full of sweet dayes and roses, 

A box where sweets compacted lie, 
My musick shows ye have your closes, 

And all must die 

Only a sweet and vertuous soul, 

Like season'd timber, never gives ; 
But though the whole world turn to coal, 
Then chiefly lives. 

George Herbert, The Church. 



Mw 13. 

As it fell upon a day 
In the merry month of May, 
Sitting in a pleasant shade 
Which a grove of myrtles made, 



128 MAY. 

Beasts did leap, and birds did sing. 

Trees did grow, and plants did spring ; 

Everything did banish moan, 

Save the nightingale alone ; 

She, poor bird, as all forlorn, 

Leaned her breast up-till a thorn, 

And there sung the dolefull'st ditty, 

That to hear it was great pity ; 

Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry, 

Teru, Teru, by and by ; 

That to hear her so complain, 

Scarce I could from tears refrain ; 

For her grief so lively shewn, 

Made me think upon mine own. 

Ah ! thought I, thou mournst in vain ; 

None take pity on thy pain : 

Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee ; 

Ruthless bears, they will not cheer thee. 

King Pandion, he is dead ; 

All thy friends are lapp'd in lead ; 

All thy fellow birds do sing, 

Careless of thy sorrowing. 

Even so, poor bird, like thee, 

None alive will pity me. 

Whilst as fickle Fortune smil'd, 

Thou and I were both beguil'd. 

Every one that flatters thee 

Is no friend in misery. 

Words are easy like the wind, 

Faithful friends are hard to find ; 

Every man will be thy friend, 

Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend ; 

But if store of crowns be scant, 

No man will supply thy want. 

If that one be prodigal, 

Bountiful they will him call ; 

And with suchlike flattering, 



MA Y. 129 



Pity but he were a king." 
But if fortune once do frown, 
Then farewell his great renown ; 
They that fawn'd on him before 
Use his company no more. 
He that is thy friend indeed, 
He will help thee in thy need ; 
If thou sorrow he will weep ; 
If thou wake he cannot sleep : 
Thus of every grief in heart 
He with thee doth bear a part. 
These are certain signs to know 
Faithful friend from flattering foe. 

Shakespeare, 

The Passionate Pilgrim. 



MUSICK. 

When gripinge grefes the hart would wounde, 
And dolefulle dumps the mynde oppresse, 

Then musicke with her silver sound 
With spede is wont to send redresse : 

Of trobled mynds, in every sore, 

Swete musicke hath a salve in store. 

In joye yt makes our mirthe abound, 
In woe yt cheres our hevy sprites ; 

Be-strawghted heads releaf hath founde 
By musickes pleasaunt swete delightes ; 

Our senses all, what shall I say more ? 

Are subjecte unto musick's lore. 
K 



i 3 o MAY. 



The gods by music have theire prayse ; 

The lyfe, the soul, therein doth joye ; 
For, as the Romayne poet sayes, 

In seas, whom pyrate would destroy, 
A dolphin saved from death most sharpe 
Arion playing on his harpe. 

O heavenly gyft, that rules the mynd, 

Even as the sterne dothe rule the shippe ! 
O musicke ! whom the gods assinde 

To comfort manne, whom cares would nippe ! 
Since thou both man and beste doth move, 
What beste ys he, wyll the disprove ? 
R. Edwards. 
See Romeo and Juliet, Act iv. s. 5. 



baby's catechism. 

"Where did you come from, baby dear?" 
" Out of the everywhere into the here." 

"Where did you get your eyes so blue?" 
" Out of the sky as I came through." 

" Where did you get that little tear ? " 
" I found it waiting when I got here." 

" Feet, whence did you come, you darling things?' 
" From the same box as the cherub's wings." 

" Where did you get that pearly ear ? " 
" God spake — and it came out to hear." 

" How did they all just come to you ? " 
" God thought about me — and so I grew." 

"But how did you come to us, you dear?" 
" God thought about you, and so I came here." 
George Macdonald. 



MAY. 131 

jmaj? 16. 

ALL THINGS COME TO AN END. 

Lo the oke, that hath so long a norishing, 
Fro the time that it ginneth first to spring, 
And hath so long a lif, as ye may see, 
Yet at the laste wasted is the tree. 
Considereth eke, how that the hard stone 
Under our feet, on which we trede is gon ; 
It wasteth, as it lieth by the way, 
The brode river sometime waxeth drey ; 
The grete tounes see we wave and wende, 
Than ye may see that all thing hath an ende. 
Of man and woman see we wel also, 
That nedes in on of the termes two, 
That is to sayn, in youthe or elles age, 
He mote be ded, the king us shall assage ; 
>Som in his bed, som in the depe see, 
Som in the large feld, as ye may see ; 
Ther helpeth nought, all goth that ilka wey : 
Than may I sayn, that alle thing mote dey. 
Then is it wisdom, as it thinketh me, 
To maken vertue of necessite, 
And take it wel, that we may not eschewe, 
And namely that to us all is dewe. 

Chaucer, The Knighte's Tale. 

Mn 17. 

THE PILGRIMAGE TO KEOLAAR. 
I. 

The mother stood at the window, 
Her son lay in the bed : 
" Look, Wilhelm, the procession 
Is passing by," she said. 



132 



MA Y. 

So sick I am, my mother, 
I cannot hear nor see, 

With thinking of my Gretchen- 
My heart aches bitterly." 

Get up ; we'll go to Keolaar, 
With book and rosary, 

And sure our blessed Lady 
Will heal thy heart for thee.' 

The holy banners flutter, 
As onward goes the line ; 

The holy psalms are chanted 
At Koln upon the Rhine. 

The mother follows also, 
Leading her son goes she, 

Both singing with the chorus, 
" Mary, all praise to thee." 



To-day our Lady at Keolaar 
Her finest clothes doth wear, 

So much she must be doing, 
So many sick come there. 

The sick folk all are bringing 
To her, as offerings meet, 

Limbs that of wax are fashioned, 
Waxen hands and feet. 

A waxen hand one offers, 

And heals in his hand the wound ; 
A waxen foot another, 

And straight his foot is sound. 

And many are now rope dancers 
Who went upon crutches there, 



MAY. 133 



And many can fiddle gaily 
Whose fingers useless were. 



And made of it a heart , 

" Bring that to our blessed Lady, 

And she will heal thy smart." 

The heart he took, and sighing 

Unto the shrine did go ; 
And from his eyes the tears, 

The words from his heart did flow. 

" O thou so highly blessed, 

purest Maid divine, 

Thou who art Queen of Heaven, 
Pity this grief of mine. 

" At Kollen in the city, 

1 with my mother dwelt, 
The city where so many 

Churches and shrines are built. 

" And close to us dwelt Gretchen, 
But dead is Gretchen now, — 
A waxen heart I bring thee, 
My wounded heart heal thou. 

" O heal my heart that's wounded, 
And I will fervently 
Keep singing late and early 
' Mary, all praise to thee.' " 

III. 

The sick man and his mother 
Within the chamber slept ; 

Then came our blessed Lady, 
And lightly in she stept. 



134 MAY, 

She bent her o'er the sick man, 

And on his heart did lay 
Her gentle hand quite lightly, 

And smiled and passed away. 

The mother dreaming saw it, 
And something more beheld : 

She woke from out her slumber 
The hounds so loudly yelled. 

There lay, stretched out before her, 

Her son, and he was dead, 
And on his pale cheek playing 

The morning light shone red. 

Her hands the mother folded, 

She felt so wondrously ; 
Devout she sang and softly, 

" Mary, all praise to thee." 

From H. Heine. 



J$8g 1 8. 

HOW THE WALL-FLOWER CAME FIRST, 
AND WHY SO CALLED. 

Why this flower is now call'd so, 
List, sweet maids, and you shal know. 
Understand, this first-ling was 
Once a brisk and bonny lasse, 
Kept as close as Danae was ; 
Who a sprightly Springall lov'd ; 
And to have it fully prov'd, 



MAY. 135 



Up she got upon a wall, 
Tempting down to slide withall ; 
But the silken twist unty'd, 
So she fell ; and bruis'd, she dy'd. 
Love, in pitty of the deed, 
And her loving lucklesse speed, 
Turn'd her to this plant we call 
Now The Flower of the Wall. 



Herrick, Hcsfierides. 



Crabbed age and youth 

Cannot live together : 

Youth is full of pleasaunce, 

Age is full of care : 

Youth like summer morn, 

Age like winter weather ; 

Youth like summer brave, 

Age like winter bare. 

Youth is full of sport, 

Age's breath is short ; 

Youth is nimble, age is lame : 

Youth is hot and bold, 

Age is weak and cold ; 

Youth is wild, and age is tame. 

Age, I do abhor thee, 

Youth, I do adore thee ! 

O my love, my love is young ! 

Age, I do defy thee ; 

O sweet shepherd, hie thee, 

For methinks thou stay'st too long. 

Shakespeare, 

The Passionate Pilgrim. 



136 MAY. 



itfap 20. 

Clear and cool, clear and cool, 

By laughing shallow and dreaming pool ; 

Cool and clear, cool and clear, 
By shining shingle and foaming wear ; 
Under the crag where the ouzel sings, 
And the ivied wall where the church bell rings, 

Undefiled for the undefiled ; 
Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child. 

Dank and foul, dank and foul, 

By the smoky town in its murky cowl, 

Foul and dank, foul and dank, 
By wharf and sewer and slimy bank ; 
Darker and darker the further I go, 
Baser and baser the richer I grow ; 

Who dare sport with the sin-defiled? 
Shrink from me, turn from me, mother and child. 

Strong and free, strong and free ; 

The floodgates are open, away to the sea. 

Free and strong, free and strong, 
Cleansing my streams as I hurry along 
To the golden sands, and the leaping bar, 
And the taintless tide that awaits me afar, 
As I lose myself in the infinite main, 
Like a soul that has sinned and is pardoned again. 

Undefiled for the undefiled ; 
Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child. 

C. Kingsley, The Water Babies. 



MAY. I37 

fflty 21. 

WOMEN. 

Nothing so true as what you once let fall, 
" Most women have no characters at all ! " 
Matter too soft a lasting mark to bear, 
And best distinguish'd by black, brown, or fair. 

Whether the charmer sinner it, or saint it, 
If Folly grow romantic, I must paint it. 
Ladies, like variegated tulips, show ; 
^Tis to their changes half their charms we owe. 
Fine by defect, and delicately weak, 
Their happy spots the nice admirer take. 
'Twas thus Calypso once each heart alarm'd, 
And without virtue, without beauty charm'd ; 
Her tongue bewitch'd as oddly as her eyes, 
Less wit than mimic, more a wit than wise ; 
Strange graces still, and stranger flights she had, 
Was just not ugly, and was just not mad ; 
Yet ne'er so sure our passion to create, 
As when she touch'd the brink of all we hate. 
Narcissa's nature, tolerably mild, 
To make a wash, would hardly stew a child ; 
Has ev'n been proved to grant a lover's pray'r, 
And paid a tradesman once to make him stare ; ~ ' 
Gave alms at Easter in a Christian trim, 
And made a widow happy for a whim. 

Wise wretch ! with pleasures too refin'd to please ; 
With too much spirit to be e'er at ease ; 
With too much quickness ever to be taught, 
With too much thinking to have common thought : 
You purchase pain with all that joy can give, 
And die of nothing but a rage to live. 



138 MAY. 

Turn then from Wits ; and look on Simo's mate ; 

No ass so meek, no ass so obstinate : 

Or her that owns her faults but never mends, 

Because she's honest, and the best of friends : 

Or her, whose life the church and scandal share, 

For ever in a passion, or a pray'r : 

Or her, who laughs at hell, but (like her Grace) 

Cries, "Ah, how charming if there's no such place !" 

Woman and Fool are too hard things to hit ; 

For true no-meaning puzzles more than wit. 

Oh ! bless'd with temper, whose unclouded ray 
Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day : 
She who can love a sister's charms, or hear 
Sighs for a daughter with umvounded ear : 
She who ne'er answers till a husband cools, 
Or if she rules him, never shows she rules : 
/"Charms by accepting, by submitting sways,\ 
Vet has her humour most when she obeys. V 

And yet believe me, good as well as ill, 
Woman's at best a contradiction still. 

Pope, Moral Essays. 



filar 22. 

THE BELL. 

Lift it gently to the steeple, 
Let our bell be set on high ; 

There fulfil its daily mission, 

Midway 'twixt the earth and sky. 

As the birds sing early matins 
To the God of Nature's praise, 



MA Y. 139 

This its nobler daily music 



And when evening shadows soften, 
Chancel, cross, and tower and aisle, 

It shall blend its vesper summons 
With the day's departing smile. 



Joying that in one communion 
Of one church they too are blest. 

They that on the sickbed languish, 

Full of weariness and woe, 
Shall remember that for them too 

Holy Church is gathering so. 

Year by year the steeple music 
O'er the tended graves shall pour, 

Where the dust of Saints is garnered, 
Till the Master comes once more ; 

Till the day of sheaves in-gathering, 

Till the harvest of the earth, 
Till the Saints arise in order, 

Glorious in their second birth ; 

Till Jerusalem, beholding 

That His glory in the east, 
Shall, at the Archangel trumpet, 

Enter in to keep the feast. 

Lift it gently to the steeple, 

Let our bell be set on high ; 
There fulfil its daily mission, 

Midway 'twixt the earth and sky. 

J. M. Neale. 



140 MA V. 



iBap 23. 

TO A BUTTERFLY. 

I'VE watched you now a full half-hour, 
Self-poised upon that yellow flower ; 
And, little butterfly, indeed 
I know not if you sleep or feed. 
Mow motionless ! — not frozen seas 

More motionless ! and then 
What joy awaits you, when the breeze 
Hath found you out among the trees, 

And calls you forth again ! 

This plot of orchard-ground is ours ; 
My trees they are, my sister's flowers ; 
Here rest your wings when they are weary ; 
Here lodge as in a sanctuary ! 
Come often to us, fear no wrong ; 

Sit near us on the bough ! 
We'll talk of sunshine and of song, 
And summer days, when we were young ; 
Sweet childish days, that were as long 

As twenty days are now ! 

Wordsworth. 



SAMSON. 

But peace ! I must not quarrel with the wil 
Of highest dispensation, which herein 
Haply had ends above my reach to know. 
Suffices that to me strength is my bane, 
And proves the source of all my miseries, — 
So many and so huge, that each apart 
Would ask a life to wail. But, chief of all, 



MA Y. 141 

O loss of sight, of thee I most complain ! 

Blind among enemies ! O worse than chains, 

Dungeon, or beggary, or decrepit age ! 

Light, the prime work of God, to me is extinct, 

And all her various objects of delight 

AnnulPd, which might in part my grief have eas'd, 

Inferior to the vilest now become 

Of man or worm ; the vilest here excel me, 

They creep, yet see ; I, dark in light, exposed 

To daily fraud, contempt, abuse, and wrong, 

Within doors, or without, still as a fool 

In power of others, never in my own ; 

Scarce half I seem to live, dead more than half. 

O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon, 

Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse 

Without all hope of day ! 

O first-created beam, and thou great Word, 

" Let there be light, and light was over all," 

Why am I thus bereaved thy prime decree ? 

The Sun to me is dark 

And silent as the Moon, 

When she deserts the night, 

Hid in her vacant interlunar cave. 

Since light so necessary is to life, 

And almost life itself, if it be true 

That light is in the soul, 

She all in every part, why was the sight 

To such a tender ball as the eye confined 

So obvious and so easy to be quench'd ? 

And not, as feeling, through all parts diffused, 

That she might look at will through every pore ? 

Then had I not been thus exiled from light, 

As in the land of darkness, yet in light, 

To live a life half dead, a living death, 

And buried ; but, O yet more miserable ! 

Myself my sepulchre, a moving grave. 

Milton, Samson Agonistes. 



142 MA Y. 



itfar 25. 

The bubble of the silver-springing waves, 
Castaiian music, and that flattering sound, 
Low rustling of the loved Apollian leaves, 

With which my youthful hair was to be crowned, 

Grow dimmer in my ears ; while Beauty grieves 

( )\cr her votary, less frequent found : 

And not untouched by storms, my lifeboat heaves 

Thro' the splashed ocean waters, outward bound. 

And as the leaning mariner, his hand 

Clasped on his car, strives trembling to reclaim 

Some 1« >\ ecl lost echo from the fleeting strand, 

St) lean 1 back to the poetic land ; 
And in my heart a sound, a voice, a name, 
Hangs, as above the lamp hangs the expiring flame. 

W. C. Roscoe. 



itfap 26. 

VILLAGE PORTRAITS. 

Thf.se are the happier pairs, their life has rest, 
Their hopes are strong, their humble portion blest ; 
While those more rash to hasty marriage led, 
Lament th' impatience which now stints their bread ; 
When such their union, years their cares increase, 
Their love grows colder, and their pleasures cease ; 
In health just fed, in sickness just relieved ; 
By hardships harass'd, and by children grieved ; 
In petty quarrels and in peevish strife, 
The once fond couple waste the spring of life : 
But when to age mature those children grown, 
Find homes and hopes and hardships of their own, 
The harass'd couple feel their lingering woes 
Receding slowly, till they find repose, 



MA Y. 143 



Complaints and murmurs then are laid aside, 
(By reason these subdued, and those by pride) ; 
And, taught by care, the patient man and wife 
Agree to share the bitter-sweet of life ; 
(Life that has sorrow much and sorrow's cure, 
Where they who most enjoy shall much endure) : 
Their rest, their labours, duties, sufferings, prayers, 
Compose the soul and fit it for its cares ; 
Their graves before them, and their griefs behind, 
Have each a med'cine for the rustic mind ; 
Nor has he care to whom his wealth shall go, 
Or who shall labour with his spade and hoe ; 
But as he lends the strength that yet remains, 
And some dead neighbour on his bier sustains, 
(One with whom oft he whirl'd the bounding flail, 
Toss'd the broad coit, or took th' inspiring ale). 
" For me," he meditates, " shall soon be done 
This friendly duty, when my race is run ; 
'Twas first in trouble as in error past, 
Dark clouds and stormy cares whole years o'ercast, 
But calm my setting clay, and sunshine smiles at 

last ; 
My vices punish'd, and my follies spent, 
Not loth to die, but yet to live content 
I rest :" — then casting on the grave his eye, 
His friend compels a tear, and his own grief a sigru 

Crabbe, The Parish Register, Pt. ii. 



JBap 27. 

No action, whether foul or fair, 
Is ever done, but it leaves somewhere 
A record, written by fingers ghostly, 
As a blessing, or a curse, and mostly 



144 MA V. 

In the greater weakness or greater strength 
Of the acts which follow it, till at length 
The wrongs of ages are redressed 
And the justice of God made manifest. 

Longfellow, The Golden Legend. 



fHap 28. 

THE BOATMEN'S SONG AS THEY NEAR THE 
RAPIDS UNDER HEIDELBERG CASTLE. 

JESU ! bless our slender boat, 
By the current swept along ; 

Loud its threatenings, — let them not 
Drown the music of a song 

Breathed Thy mercy to implore, 

Where these troubled waters roar ! 

Saviour, for our warning seen 
Bleeding on that precious Rood ; 

If, while thro' the meadows green 
( Gently wound the peaceful flood, 

We forgot Thee, do not Thou 

Disregard Thy suppliants now ! 

Hither, like yon ancient tower 
Watching o'er the river's bed, 

Fling the shadow of Thy power, 
Else we sleep among the dead ; 

Thou Who trod'st the billowy sea, 

Shield us in our jeopardy ! 



MA Y. 145 

Guide our bark among the waves ; 

Through the rocks our passage smooth ; 
When the whirlpool frets and raves 

Let Thy Love its anger soothe : 
All our hope is placed in Thee, 
Miserere Domine ! 

Wordsworth, 

JEtag 29. 

JEALOUSY. 

What state of life can be so blest, 
As love that warms the gentle brest ; 
Two souls in one ; the same desire 
To grant the bliss, and to require ? 
If in this heaven a hell we find, 
'Tis all from thee, 
O Jealousie ! 
Thou tyrant, tyrant of the mind. 

All other ills, tho' sharp they prove, 
Serve to refine a perfect love : 
In absence, or unkind disdain 
Sweet hope relieves the lover's pain ; 
But O ! no cure but death we find 
To sett us free 
From Jealousie, 
Thou tyrant, tyrant of the mind. 

False in thy glass all objects are, 
Some set too near, and some too far : 
Thou art the fire of endless might, 
The fire that burns, and gives no light. 
All torments of the damned, we find 
In only thee, 
O Jealousie ; 
Thou tyrant, tyrant of the mind. 

Dryden. 
l 



146 MAY, 



fttap 30. 

Flowers preach to us if we will hear. 
The rose saith in the dewy morn, 
I am most fair ; 
Yet all my loveliness is born 
Upon a thorn. 

The poppy saith, amid the corn.. 
Let but my scarlet head appear 
And 1 am held in scorn ; 
Yet juice of subtle virtue lies 
Within my cup of curious dyes. 
The lilies say : Behold how we 
Preach without words of purity. 
The violets whisper from the shade 
Which their own leaves have made : 
Men scent our fragrance on the air, 
Net take no heed 

Of humble lessons we would read. 
But not alone the fairest (lowers; — 
The merest grass 

Along the roadside where we pass, 
Lichen and moss and sturdy weed, 
Tell of His Love Who sends the dew, 
The rain and sunshine too, 
To nourish one small seed. 

Christina Rossetti. 



fBap 31. 

Ah, yet when all is thought and said, 
The heart still overrules the head ; 
Still what we hope we must believe, 
And what is given us receive. 



MA Y. 147 



Must still believe, for still we hope 
That in a world of wider scope, 
What here is faithfully begun 
Will be completed, not undone. 

My child, we still must think, when we 
That ampler life together see, 
Some true result will sure appear 
Of what we are together here. 

A. H. Clough. 



148 JUNE. 



June i. 

CHORUS OF BIRDS. 

If the race of men are wise, 
Soon to us they'll sacrifice, 
Soon before us suppliant fall, 
For we glance and rule o'er all. 
When 1 sail the sky, my gaze 
Every nook beneath surveys ; 
When to earth from heaven I shoot 
I am guardian of the fruit : 
Foe of every glutton worm 
Feasting on the tender germ, 
Or on trees, with budlets swelling, 
Finding both his food and dwelling. 
All that mar the garden's sweets 
I pursue to their retreats ; 
All that creep, and all that sting, 
Shudder when they hear my wing ; 
They by tiny talons slain, 
Ne'er shall slime the flowers again. 
Storm may beat, or sun may shine, 
Happy, happy life is mine ! 
From the biting winter's cold 
Swathed not in the mantle's fold, 
Scorched not by the piercing ray 
Of the sultry summer day, 
Mid the flowery meads I wrap me, 
Where the cradling leaflets lap me ; 
Thus the glowing heat I shun, 
When, enthusiast of the sun, 



JUNE. 149 

Taught by heaven his shrilly tune, 
Wakes the insect bard of noon. 
When the frost I cannot bide, 
In the sheltering grot I hide, 
There, through gloomy winter, gay, 
Mid the mountain nymphs, I play ; 
With the balmy breath of spring, 
With the myrtle's blossoming, 
Straight to feast I speed my flight 
On its buds of virgin white, 
Or on sweets of perfumed flowers, 
Culled amid the Graces' bowers. 
J. Anstice, 
from Aristophanes, Av. 1058. 

Ifime 2. 

QUA CURSUM VENTUS. 

As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay 
With canvas drooping, side by side, 

Two towers of sail at dawn of day 

Are scarce long leagues apart descried ; 

When fell the night, upsprung the breeze, 
And all the darkling hours they plied, 

Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas 
By each was cleaving, side by side. 

E'en so — but why the tale reveal 

Of those, whom year by year unchanged, 

Brief absence joined anew to feel, 
Astounded, soul from soul estranged. 

At dead of night their sails were filled, 
And onward each rejoicing steered — 

Ah, neither blame, for neither willed, 
Or wist, what first with dawn appeared ! 



150 JUNE. 

To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain, 
Brave barks ! In light, in darkness too, 

Through winds and tides one compass guides- 
To that, and your own selves, be true. 

But O blithe breeze ! and O great seas, 
Though ne'er, that earliest parting past, 

On your wide plain they join again, 
Together lead them home at last. 

One port, mcthought, alike they sought, 
One purpose hold where'er they fare, — 

O bounding breeze, ( I rushing seas ! 
At last ! at last, unite them there ! 

A. H. CLOUGH. 



June 3. 

THE tomb to the blushing rose thus said, 

" Of the tears upon thee by the morning shed, 

What makest thou, Queen of love?" 
The rose in her turn thus questioned the tomb : 
"What makest thou in thy gulf of gloom, 

Of all thou devour'st from above?" 

Said the rose to the tomb, " From these precious 

tears 
A scent that of amber and honey appears, 

I breathe out mid the silence of night." 
And the tomb replied to the rose, " Plaintive flower, 
Of every soul that I seem to devour, 

I make a blest angel of light." 

Bulwer Lytton. 



JUNE. 151 

lime 4. 

Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good, 
A shining gloss, that vadeth suddenly : 
A flower that dies, when first it 'gins to bud ; 
A brittle glass, that's broken presently : 

A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower, 
Lost, vaded, broken, dead within an hour. 

And as goods lost are seld or never found, 
As vaded gloss no rubbing will refresh, 
As flowers dead lie withered on the ground, 
" As broken glass no cement can redress, 

So beauty, blemish'd once, for ever's lost, 
In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost. 
Shakespeare, 
The Passionate Pilgrim. 

June 5- 

DREAMING. 

Oh, that our dreamings all, of sleep or wake, 
Would all their colours from the sunset take : 
From something of material sublime, 
Rather than shadow our own soul's daytime 
In the dark void of night. . . . 

. . . Things cannot to the will 
Be settled, but they tease us out of thought ; 
Or is it that imagination brought 
Beyond its proper bound, yet still confined, 
Lost in a sort of purgatory blind, 
Cannot refer to any standard law 
Of either earth or heaven ? It is a flaw 
In happiness, to see beyond our bourn, — 
It forces us in sunnier skies to mourn, 
It spoils the singing of the nightingale. 

Keats. 



i 5 2 JUNE, 



June 6. 

HE LAID HIS HAND UPON ME. 

Lay Thy Hand upon mc 

When I fall asleep, 
Through the silent hours 

Close beside mc keep : 
Then the Prince <»f Darkness, 

Ruler of the air, 
Will not dare to touch me 

If Thy Hand is there. 

Lay Thy Hand upon mc, 

Tenderly restrain 
All ion eager longings, 

Every impulse vain : 
Calm my spirit's chafing, 

Restless with long care : 
Murmurs melt in silence 

When Thy Hand is there. 

Lay Thy Hand upon mc 

When I rashly stray 
Into paths forbidden, 

Choosing my own way, 
Alt ! how much correction, 

Lord, I have to bear, 
Yet must take it meekly, 

For Thy Hand is there. 

Lead me now and always 

Even to the last, 
Till the way is ended 

And the darkness past : 



JUNE. 153 

Till I reach the glory 

I was born to share, 
This its crown and centre, 

That my Lord is there. 

C. M. Noel. 



3[une 7- 

IMPOSSIBILITIES. 

MY faithfull friend, if you can see 
The fruit to grow up, or the tree ;— 
If you can see the colour come 
Into the blushing peare or plum ; — 
If you can see the water grow 
To cakes of ice, or flakes of snow ; — 
If you can see that drop of raine 
Lost in the wild sea, once againe ; — 
If you can see how dreams do creepe 
Into the brain by easie sleep ; — 
Then there is hope that you may see 
Her love me once, who now hates me. 

Herrick, Hesperides. 



3fune 8. 

A GREEN CORNFIELD. 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest." 

The earth was green, the sky was blue : 
I saw and heard one sunny morn 

A skylark hang between the two, 
A singing speck above the corn : 



•54 JUNE. 

A stage below, in gay accord, 

White butterflies danced on the wing, 

And still the singing skylark soared 
And silent sank and soared to sing. 

The cornfield stretched a tender green 
To right and left beside my walks ; 

I knew he had a nest unseen 

Somewhere among the million stalks : 

And as I paused to hear his song 
While swift the sunny moments slid, 

Perhaps his mate sat listening long, 
And listened longer than I did. 

Christina Rossetti. 



lune 9- 

To leave unseen so many a glorious sight, 

To leave so many lands unvisited, 

To leave so many worthiest books unread, 

Unrealised so many visions bright ; — 

Oh wretched yet inevitable spite 

Of our short span, and we must yield our breath, 

And wrap us in the lazy coil of death, 

So much remaining of unproved delight. 

But hush, my soul, and, vain regrets, be stilled ; 

Find rest in Him Who is the complement 

Of whatsoe'er transcends your mortal doom, 

Of broken hope and frustrated intent ; 

In the clear vision and aspect of Whom 

All wishes and all longings are fulfilled. 

Archbishop Trench. 



JUNE. 155 



3fune 10. 

If thou be master gunner, spend not all 
That thou canst speak, at once ; but husband it, 
And give men turns of speech : do not forestall 
By lavishness thine own and others' wit, 

As if thou mad'st thy will. A civil guest 
Will no more talk all than eat all the feast. 

Be calm in arguing ; for fiercenesse makes 
Errour a fault, and truth discourtesie. 
Why should I feel another man's mistakes 
More, than his sicknesse or povertie ? 

In love I should : but anger is not love, 
Nor wisdome either ; therefore gently move. 

Pitch thy behaviour low, thy projects high ; 
So shalt thou humble and magnanimous be : 
Sink not in spirit : who aimeth at the sky 
Shoots higher much than he that means a tree. 
A grain of glorie mixt with humblenesse 
Cures both a fever and lethargicknesse. 
George Herbert, The Chitrch Porch. 



Ifune 11. 

" Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was 

wasted ; 
If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters 

returning 
Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them 

full of refreshment ; 
That which the fountain sends forth returns again 

to the fountain. 
Patience ; accomplish thy labour ; accomplish thy 

work of affection ! 



1 56 JUNE. 

Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endur- 
ance is godlike. 

Therefore accomplish thy labour of love, till the 
heart is made godlike, 

Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered 
more worthy of heaven !" 

Cheered by the good man's words, Evangeline 
laboured and waited. 

Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of the 
ocean, 

But with its sound there was mingled a voice that 
whispered, " Despair not I" 

Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheer- 
less discomfort. 

Bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns 
of existence. 

l.< >ngi ii u iw, Evangeline. 



June ir. 

I ill i [Gl R. 

Til i'R, tiger, burning bright 
In the forests of the night, 

What immortal hand or eye 
framed thy fearful symmetr\ ? 

In what distant deeps or skies 
Burnt the fire of thine ey< 
On what wings dared he aspire? 
What the hand dared seize the fire? 

And what shoulder and what art 
Could twist the sinews of thy heart? 
And, when thy heart began to beat, 
What dread hand form'd thy dread feet ? 



JUNE. 157 

What the hammer ? what the chain ? 
Knit thy strength and forged thy brain ? 
What the anvil ? what dread grasp 
Dare its deadly terrors clasp ? 

When the stars threw down their spears, 
And watered heaven with their tears, 
Did He smile His work to see ? 
Did He Who made the lamb make thee ? 

Tiger, tiger, burning bright 
In the forests of the night, 
What immortal hand or eye 
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry ? 

W. Blake. 



3fune 13. 

THE FLOWER'S NAME. 

Here's the garden she walked across, 

Arm in my arm, such a short while since : 
Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss 

Hinders the hinges, and makes them wince ! 
She must have reached this shrub ere she turned, 

As back with that murmur the wicket swung : 
For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned, 

To feed and forget it the leaves among. 

Down this side of the gravel walk 

She went while her robe's edge brushed the box : 
And here she paused in her gracious talk 

To point me a moth on the milk white phlox. 
Roses, ranged in valiant row 

I will never think that she passed you by : 
She loves you, noble roses, I know ; 

But yonder see, where the rock plants lie. 



158 JVNE. 

This flower she stopped at, finger on lip, 

Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim ; 
Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip, 

The soft meandering Spanish name : 
What a name ! Was it love or praise ? 

Speech half asleep or song half awake ? 
I must learn Spanish, one of these days, 

Only for that slow sweet name's sake. 

Roses, if I live and do well, 

I may bring her, one of these days, 
To li\ you fast with as fine a spell, 

P"it you each with his Spanish phrase ; 
But do not detain me now ; for she lingers 

There, like sunshine over the ground, 
And ever I see her soft white fingers 

Searching after the bud she found. 

Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not, 

Stay as you are, and be loved for ever ! 
But if I kiss you 'tis that you blow not, 

Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never ! 
For while it pouts, her lingers wrestle, 

Twinkling the audacious leaves between, 
Till round they turn and down they nestle — 

Is not the dear mark still to be seen ? 

Where I find her not, beauties vanish ; 

Whither I follow her, beauties flee ; 
Is there no method to tell her in Spanish 

June's twice June since she breathed it with me? 
Come, bud, show me the least of her traces, 

Treasure my lady's lightest footfall ! 
Ah ! you may flout and turn up your faces — 

Roses, you are not so fair after all ! 

R. Browning. 



JUNE. 159 

3(une 14- 

THE MOUNTAINS. 

Blue and baseless and beautiful 
Did the boundless mountains bear 
Their folded shadows into the golden air ; 
The comfortlessness of their chasms was full 
Of orient cloud and undulating mist, 
Which where their silver cataracts kissed, 
Quivered with panting colour. 

J. RUSKIN. 



3lune 15. 

'Tis not, I know, the chiming of a song, 

Nor all the powers that to the muse belong, 

Words aptly culPd, and meanings well express'd, 

Can calm the sorrows of a wounded breast : 

But virtue, soother of the fiercest pains, 

Shall heal that bosom where she reigns. 

Yet hard the task to heal the bleeding heart, 

To bid the still recurring thoughts depart, 

Tame the fierce grief and stem the rising sigh, 

And curb rebellious passion, with reply : 

Calmly to dwell on all that pleased before, 

And yet to know that all shall please no more : — 

Oh ! glorious labour of the soul, to save 

Her captive powers, and bravely mourn the brave. 

To such these thoughts will lasting comforts give — 

Life is not measured by the time we live : 

'Tis not an even course of threescore years, — 

A life of narrow views and paltry fears, 

Gray hairs and wrinkles and the cares they bring, 

That take from Death the terrors or the stinsr : 



i6o JUNE. 

But 'tis the gen'rous spirit, mounting high 
Above the world, that native of the sky, 
The noble spirit, that in dangers brave, 
Calmly looks on, and looks beyond the grave. 

Crabbe, The Village, Book ii. 

3( line 1 6. 

CRITICISM. 

Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill 
Appear in writing or in judging ill ; 
But of the two, less dang'rous is the offence, 
To tire our patience, than mislead our sense, 
Some few in that, but numbers err in this, 
Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss ; 
A fool might once himself alone expose, 
Now one in verse makes many more in prose. 
'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none 
Go just alike, but each believes his own. 
In poets as true genius is but rare, 
True taste as seldom is the critic's share ; 
Both must alike from Heav'n derive their light, 
These born to judge, as well as those to write. 
Let such teach others who themselves excel, 
And censure freely who have written well. 

Some, to whom Heav'n in wit has been profuse, 
Want as much more to turn it to its use ; 
For wit and judgment often are at strife, 
Tho' meant each other's aid, as man and wife. 

A little learning is a dangerous thing ; 
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring : 
There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, 
And drinking largely sobers us again. 



JUNE. 161 

Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, 
Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be. 

/True wit is nature to advantage dress'd, 
^What oft was thought, but ne'er so well express'd. - 
Something whose truth, convinc'd at sight, we find, 
That gives us back the image of our mind. 
As shades more sweetly recommend the light, 
So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit. 
For works may have more wit than does 'em good, 
As bodies perish thro' excess of blood. 
But true expression, like th' unchanging sun, 
Clears and improves whate'er it shines upon ; 
It gilds all objects, but it alters none. 
Expression is the dress of thought, and still 
Appears more decent, as more suitable ; 
A vile conceit in pompous words express'd, 
Is like a clown in regal purple dress'd ; 
For different styles with diff 'rent subjects sort, 
As several garbs with country, town, and court. 
In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold, 
Alike fantastic, if too new, or old : 
Be not the first by whom the new are try'd, 
Nor yet the last to lay the old aside. 

Avoid extremes, and shun the fault of such, 
Who still are pleas'd too little or too much ; 
At ev'ry trifle scorn to take offence, 
That always shows great pride, or little sense ; 
Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best, 
Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest. 

Good nature and good sense must ever join ; 
To err is human, to forgive, divine. 

Pope, Essay on Criticism. 
M 



1 62 JUNE. 



3fune 17. 

THE EXILE. 

[Venice — The Prison.) 

Mariana. " Thy life is safe." 

Jacopo. "And liberty?" 

" The mind should make its own." 
" That has a noble sound, but 'tis a sound, 
A music most impressive, but too transient : 
The mind is much, but is not all . . . 

Return to Candia ? Then my last hope's gone. 
I could endure my dungeon, for 'twas Venice ; 
I could support the torture, there was something 
In my native air that buoyed my spirits up 
Like a ship on the ocean toss'd by storms, 
But proudly still bestriding the high waves, 
And holding on its course ; but there, afar, 
In that accursed isle of slaves and captives, 
And unbelievers, like a stranded wreck 
My very soul seem'd mouldering in my bosom, 
And piecemeal I shall perish, if remanded." 

" It was the lot of millions, and must be 
The fate of myriads more?" 

" Ay — we but hear 
Of the survivors' toil in their new lands, 
Their numbers and success ; but who can number 
The hearts which broke in silence of that parting ? 
Or after their departure ; of that malady 
Which calls up green and native fields to view 
From the rough deep, with such identity 
To the poor exile's fever'd eye, that he 



JUNE. 163 

Can scarcely be restrain'd from treading them ? 

That melody, which out of tones and tunes 

Collects such pasture for the longing sorrow 

Of the sad mountaineer, when far away 

From his snow canopy of cliffs and clouds, 

That he feeds on the sweet, but poisonous thought, 

And dies. You call this weakness ! It is strength, 

I say, — the parent of all honest feeling. 

He who loves not his country, can love nothing." 

" Obey her then : 'tis she that puts thee forth." 

" Ah ! you never yet 
Were far away from Venice, never saw 
Her beautiful towers in the receding distance, 
While every furrow of the vessel's track 
Seem'd ploughing deep into your heart ; you never 
Saw day go down upon your native spires 
So calmly with its gold and crimson glory, 
And after dreaming a disturbed vision 
Of them and theirs, awoke and found them not ! " 
Byron, The Two Foscari. 



3(ime 18. 

EVENING. 

The evening comes, the fields are still. 
The tinkle of the thirsty rill, 
Unheard all day, ascends again ; 
Deserted is the half-mown plain, 
Silent the swaths. The ringing wain, 
The mower's cry, the dog's alarms, 
All housed within the sleeping farms ! 
The business of the day is done, 
The last left haymaker is gone. 
And from the thyme upon the height, 



[64 JUNE. 

And from the elder-blossom white 

And pale dogroses in the hedge, 

And from the mint plant in the sedge, 

In puffs of balm the night air blows 

The perfume which the day foregoes. 

And on the pure horizon far, 

See, pulsing with the first-born star, 

The liquid sky above the hill ! 

The evening comes, the fields are still. 

M. Arnold, Bacchanalia. 



3fimc 19. 

THE DOWNFALL OF CHARING CROSS. 

Demolished 1647 by order of the House of Commons 
as popish and superstitious. 

Undone, undone, the lawyers are, 

They wander about the towne, 
Nor can find the way to Westminster, 

Now Charing Cross is downe : 
At the end of the Strand they make a stand, 

Swearing they are at a loss, 
And chaffing say, that's not the way, 

They must go by Charing Cross. 

The parliament to vote it down 

Conceived it very fitting, 
For fear it should fall, and kill them all, 

In the House, as they were sitting. 
They were told, godwot, it had a plot, 

Which made them so hard-hearted, 
To give command, it should not stand, 

But be taken down and carted. 



JUNE. 165 

Men talk of plots, this might have been worse, 

For anything I know, 
Than that Tomkins and Chaloner, 

Were hang'd for long agoe. 
Our parliament did that prevent, 

And wisely them defended, 
For plots they will discover still, 

Before they were intended. 

But neither man, woman, nor child, 

Will say, I'm confident, 
They ever heard it speak one word 

Against the parliament. 
An informer swore, it letters bore, 

Or else it had been freed ; 
I'll take, in troth, my Bible oath, 

It could neither write nor read. 

The committee said, that verily 

To popery it was bent ; 
For ought I know, it might be so, 

For to church it never went. 
What with excise, and such device, 

The kingdom doth begin 
To think you'll leave them ne'er a cross, 

Without doors nor within. 

Methinks the Common council shou'd 

Of it have taken pity, 
'Cause, good old cross, it always stood 

So firmly to the city. 
Since crosses you so much disdain, 

Faith, if I were as you, 
For fear the King should rule again, 

I'd pull down Tiburn too. 

Percy's Reliques. 



166 JUNE. 

3fune 20. 

EVENING. 

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, 

The holy time is quiet as a nun 

Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun 

Is sinking down in its tranquillity ; 

The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea : 

Listen ! the mighty Being is awake, 

And doth with His Eternal motion make 

A sound like thunder, everlastingly. 

Dear child, dear girl, that walkest with me here, 

If thou appear untouched by solemn thoughts 

Thy nature is not therefore less divine ; 

Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year ; 

And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine, 

God being with thee when we know it not. 

Wordsworth. 

Ifune 21. 

A DOCTOUR OF PHISIKE. 

In all this world ne was ther non him like, 
To speke of phisike and of surgerie. 

He knew the cause of every maladie ; 
Were it y cold, or hote, or moist, or drie, 
And when engendred, and of what humour ; 
He was a veray partite practisour. 
The cause y knowen, and of his harm the rote, 
Anon he gave to the sike man his bote. 
Ful redy hadde he his apothecaries, 
To send him drugges, and his lettuaries, 
For each of hem made other for to winne, 
His friendship n'as not newe to beginne. 

Chaucer, Caiiterbu?y Tales, Prologue. 



JUNE. 167 

3(une 22. 

DEATH. 

It is not death, that sometimes in a sigh 

This eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight ; 

That sometime these bright stars, that now reply 

In sunlight to the sun, shall set in night ; 

That this warm conscious flesh shall perish quite, 

And all life's ruddy springs forget to flow : 

That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal sprite 

Be lapped in alien clay and laid below ; 

It is not death to know this — but to know 

That pious thoughts, which visit at new graves 

In tender pilgrimage, will cease to go 

So duly and so oft, — and when grass waves 

Over the past-away, there may be then 

No resurrection in the minds of men. 

T. HOOD. 



3ftme 23. 

If that high world, which lies beyond 

Our own, surviving Love endears ; 
If there the cherish'd heart be fond, 

The age the same, except in tears — 
How welcome those untrodden spheres ! 

How sweet this very hour to die ! 
To soar from earth and find all fears, 

Lost in thy light — Eternity ! 

It must be so : 'tis not for self 
That we so tremble on the brink : 

And striving to o'erleap the gulf, 
Yet cling to Being's severing link. 



[68 JUNE. 

Oh ! in that future let us think 

To hold each heart the heart that shares ; 
With them the immortal waters drink, 

And soul in soul grow deathless theirs ! 

Byron. 



3[une 24. 

ST. JOHN THE BAPTIST'S DAY. 

COME forth, come forth, my maidens, 'tis the day of 

good St. John, 
It is the Baptist's morning that breaks the hills 

upon ; 
And let us all go forth together, while the blessed 

day is new, 
To dress with flowers the snow-white wether, ere 

the sun has dried the dew. 

Come forth, come forth, my maidens, the woodlands 

are all green, 
And the little birds are singing the opening leaves 

between ; 
And let us all go forth together, to gather trefoil by 

the stream, 
Ere the face of Guadalquivir glows beneath the 

strengthening beam. 

Come forth, come forth, my maidens, and slumber 

not away 
The blessed, blessed morning of the holy Baptist's 

day; 
There's trefoil on the meadow, and lilies on the lee, 
And woodbine on the blossoming bush, which you 

must pluck with me. 



JUNE. 169 

Come forth, come forth, my maidens, the air is 

calm and cool, 
And the orange blossom ye may see, reflected in 

the pool ; 
The lemon and the roses, and the jasmine all 

together, 
We'll bind in garlands on the brow of the strong, 

the noble wether. 

Come forth, come forth, my maidens, we'll gather 

myrtle boughs, 
And we shall learn from the dew on the fern if our 

lads will keep their vows, 
If the wether be still, as we dance on the hill, and 

the dew hangs sweet on the flowers, 
Then we'll kiss off the dew, for our lovers are true, 

and the Baptist's blessing is ours. 

Come forth, come forth, my maidens, 'tis the day of 

good St. John, 
It is the Baptist's morning that breaks the hills 

upon ; 
And let us all go forth together, while the blessed 

day is new, 

dress with i 

the sun has dried the dew. 

Spanish Peasant Sotig, trans. J. LOCK HART. 

3ftme 25. 

THE MARTYRDOM OF THE ARCHBISHOP OF PARIS, 
JUNE 25, 1848. 

A DAY of clouds and darkness ! a day of wrath 

and woe ! 
The war of elements above, the strife of men below ! 
Thro' the air rings shout and outcry, — thro' the 

streets a red tide pours, — 



170 JUNE. 

To the booming of the cannon the ancient city roars ; 
For wilder than the tempest is human passion's 

strife, 
And deadlier than the elements the waste of 

human life : 

No breathing time for pity, 'tis the long stern tug 

of might, 
The war of poor against the rich, and both against 

the right ; 
Each street and lane the artillery sweeps, — the rifle 

enfilades, 
With stone and bar, with beam and spar, they pile 

the barricades ; 
And women, fiends with blood -specked arms, 

fierce eye, and frenzied mien, 
Cry "Up the Red Republic!" and "Up the 

Guillotine !" 

Now forth and on them, Garde Mobile ! stout 

heart, firm hand, quick eye ! 
No mercy know, no quarter show, to pity is to die! 
To the last worst fate of cities, — the murder and 

the rape, 
'Tis yours to give one answer, the sabre and the 

grape : 
There is lust and hate and murder — they have 

filled rebellion's cup, 
And to the God of Vengeance the city's cry 

goes up ! 

And more and more, on, on they pour ; there's the 

battery's thicker flame, 
And the quicker ring of musketry, and the rifle's 

deadlier aim ; 
Go, hurry to the Assembly, — for the bravest chiefs 

are there, — 
Bedeau and Brea, and Cavaignac and Lamoriciere. 



JUNE. 171 

And in and out the frequent scout goes hastening 
as he may ; 

"At the Rue d'Antoine the Garde Mobile have the 
better of the day " — 

" Some succour to the Port au Ble — they scarce can 
hold their own " — 

" Help, help ! or all is over at the Barriere du 
Trone!" 

And out and forth, east, west, and north, the hurry- 
ing chiefs advance, 

To combat with the combatants, and to die, if 
needs, for France. 

Who come towards the barricade with steady steps 

and slow, 
With prayers and tears, and blessings to aid them 

as they go ? 
Among the armed no armour the little cohort 

boasts, 
Their leader is their Prelate, their trust the Lord of 

Hosts ? 
And the brave Archbishop tells them in voice most 

sweet and deep, 
How the Good Shepherd layeth down His life to 

save the sheep : 
How some short years of grief and tears were no 

great price to give, 
That peace might come from discord, and bid these 

rebels live : 
Rebels so precious in His eyes, that He, Whose 

word is fate, 
Alone could make, alone redeem, alone regenerate ! 

One moment's lull of firing, and near and nearer 

goes 
That candidate for martyrdom to the midmost of 

his foes : 



172 JUNE. 

And on he went, with love unspent, toward the 

rifled line, 
As calm in faith, in sight of death, as in his Church's 

shrine : 
And the war closed deadlier round him, and more 

savage rose the cheer, 
And the bullets whistled past him, but still he knew 

no fear : 
And calmer grew his visage, and brighter grew his 

eye, 
He could not save his people, for his people he 

could die : 
And, following in the holy steps of Him that har- 
rowed hell, 
By death crushed death, by falling upraised the 

men that fell. 

They bear him from his passion, for the prize of 

peace is won : 
His warfare is accomplished, his godlike errand 

run : 
They kneel before his litter, in the midst of hottest 

strife ; 
They ask his prayers, the uttermost, who gave for 

them his life, 
So, offering up his sacrifice to God with free accord, 
The city's Martyr Bishop went home to see his 

Lord! 

Now God be praised that even yet His promise 

doth not fail ! 
The gates of hell can never more against his Church 

prevail : 
When human ties are slackened, and earthly 

kingdoms rock, 
And thrones and sceptres crumble, like potsherd in 

the shock : 



JUNE. 173 

There's that, unearthly, tho' on earth, that ne'er 

shall be o'erthrown : 
Laud to the King of Martyrs for the Victory of His 

own ! 

J. M. Neale. 



3ftme 26. 

SALVATOR MUNDI. 

FAIR as far, pure as Thou art unseen, 
Sole Comforter of this most pitiful world, 
Almighty, though the red wounds glow with fire 
Of unforgetful love : O Heart of Life, 

Food of my yearnful soul, Thou Son of God, 

1 do not ask to see Thee, not as yet — 
But distantly, as some far guiding light 

Leaps o'er the gale's proud crests and sheeted spray 
Shows here the haven, there the gates of death, 
Rise on th' eternal shore beyond the storm, 
Reveal Thyself our Life, and bid us come 
Through wild estranging floods companionless 
Beneath a starless night to Thee and Home. 



If une 27. 

STARS. 

" More and more stars ! and ever as I gaze 

Brighter and brighter seen ! 
Whence come they, Father? trace me out their ways 

Far in the deep serene." 
My child, these eyes of mine but faintly show 

One step on earth below : 
And even our wisest may but dream, they say, 
Of what is done on high by yon empyreal ray. 



174 JUNE. 

Thou know' st at deepening twilight, how afar 

On heath or mountain down 
The shepherds kindle many an earthly star, 

How from the low damp town 
We thro' the mist the lines of torchlight trace 

In dwellings proud or base : 
But whom they light, what deeds and words are there, 
We know but this alone — 'tis well if all be prayer. 

Whether on lonely shades the pale sad ray 

From a sick chamber fall, 
Or amid thousands more beam glad and gay 

From mirthful bower or hall, 
If pure the joy, and patient be the woe, 

Heaven's breath is there we know : 
And surely of yon lamps on high we deem 
As of pure worlds, whereon the floods of mercy 
stream. 

More and more stars, here in our outward Heaven, 

More and more Saints above ! 
But to the wistful gaze the sight is given, 

The vision to meek love, — 
Love taught of old to treasure and embalm 

Whate'er in morning calm 
Or evening soft steals from the gracious skies, 
The dry ground freshening with the dews of Paradise. 

More and more stars ! behold yon hazy arch 

Spanning the vault on high, 
By planets traversed in majestic march, 

Seeming to earth's dull eye 
A breath of gleaming air : but take thou wing 

Of Faith and upward spring : — 
Into a thousand stars the misty light 
Will part ; each star a world with its own day and 
night. 



JUNE. 175 

Not otherwise of yonder Saintly host 

Upon the glorious shore 
Deem thou. He marks them all, not one is lost ; 

By name He counts them o'er. 
Full many a soul, to man's dim praise unknown, 

May on its glory throne 
As brightly shine, and prove as strong in prayer 
As theirs, whose separate beams shoot keenest 
thro' this air. 

J. Keble. 



3fime 28. 

VEXATIONS. 

Each trial has its weight ; which whoso bears, 
Knows his own woe, and need of succouring grace ; 
The martyr's hope half wipes away the trace 
Of flowing blood ; the while life's humblest cares 
Smart more, because they hold in Holy Writ no 
place. 

This be my comfort, in these days of grief 
Which is not Christ's, nor forms heroic tale. 
Apart from Him if not a sparrow fail, 
May not He pitying view, and send relief 
When foes or friends perplex, and peevish thoughts 
prevail. 

Then keep good heart, nor take the self-wise course 
Of Thomas, who must see ere he would trust. 
Faith will fill up God's word, not poorly, just 
To the bare letter, heedless of its force, 
But walking by its light amid earth's sun and dust, 

J. H. Newman. 



176 JUNE. 



3(une 29. 

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST {Old Ballad). 

I've heard them lilting, at the ewe milking, 
Lasses a' lilting, before dawn of day : 

But now they are moaning, on ilka green loaning ; 
The flowers of the forest are a' wede awae. 

At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming, 
'Bout stacks, with the lasses at bogle to play ; 

But ilk maid sits dreary, lamenting her deary — 
The flowers of the forest are a' wede awae. 

Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the 
Border, 
The English for ance, by guile wan the day ; 
The flowers of the forest, that fought aye the 
foremost, 
The prime of our land are cauld in the clay. 

We'll hear nae mair lilting, at the ewe milking ; 

Women and bairns are heartless and wae ; 
Sighing and moaning, on ilka green loaning — 

The flowers of the forest are a' wede awae. 

Old Ballad, Minstrelsy of the Border. 



JUNE. 177 



lime 30. 
the flowers OF the forest (Modem Version). 

I've seen the smiling of fortune beguiling, 
I've tasted her favours and felt her decay ; 

Sweet is her blessing, and kind her caressing, 
But soon it is fled — it is fled far away. 

I've seen the forest adorned of the foremost, 
With flowers of the fairest, both pleasant and gay ; 

Full sweet was their blooming, their scent the air 
perfuming, 
But now they are wither'd, and a' wede awae. 

I've seen the morning, with gold the hills adorning, 

And the red stream roaring, before the parting 

day ; 

I've seen Tweed's silver streams, glittering in the 

sunny beams, 

Turn drumly and dark, as they rolled on their way. 

O fickle fortune ! why this cruel sporting ? 

Why thus perplex us poor sons of a day ? 
Thy frowns cannot fear me, thy smiles cannot 
cheer me, 
Since the flowers of the forest are a' wede awae, 

Mrs. Cockburn. 



1 7 8 JULY. 



3!uiu i. 

THE WEATHERCOCK. 

Whene'er thy shining vane arrests my view, 

Keeping its solitary watch on high, 

Amidst the tempest's wildest revelry, 

Or summer skies of deep and boundless blue ; — 

In every change, still ready found and true, — 

Intent to learn, as with a servant's eye, 

Thy Ruler's will, and own His mastery, 

As fickle I condemn thee not, tho' few 

There are who do not this injustice show, 

And turn thy very faithfulness to naught. 

May I the truths thou teachest better know, 

And void of pride, with as self-wisdom fraught 

One Master serve, and tho' misjudged below 

By His unerring Will, whate'er it prompts be taught. 

Francis Lear, Dean of Salisbury. 



3ful« 2. 

FAMILIAR LOVE. 

We read together, reading the same book, 
Our heads bent forward in a half embrace, 
So that each shade that either spirit took 
Was straight reflected in the other's face : 



JULY. 179 

We read, not silent, nor aloud — but each 

Followed the eye that past the page along, 

With a low murmuring sound that was not speech, 

Yet with so much monotony, 

In its half slumbering harmony, 

You might not call it song : 

More like a bee, that in the sun rejoices, 
Than any customed mood of human voices. 
Then if some wayward or disputed sense 
Made cease awhile that music, and brought on 
A strife of gracious-worded difference, 
Too light to hurt our souls' dear unison, 
We had experience of a blissful state, 
In which our powers of thought stood separate, 
Each in its own high freedom, set apart, 
But both close folded in one loving heart ; 
So that we seemed, without conceit, to be 
Both one and two in our identity. 

We prayed together, sharing the same prayer 
But each that prayed did seem to be alone, 
And saw the other, in a golden air 
Poised far away, beneath a vacant throne, 
Beck'ning the kneeler to arise and sit 
Within the glory which encompassed it : 
And when obeyed, the Vision stood beside, 
And led the way through the upper hyaline, 
Smiling in beauty tenfold glorified, 
Which, while on earth, had seemed enough divine, 
The beauty of the Spirit Bride, 
Who guided the rapt Florentine. 

The depth of human reason must become 
As deep as is the holy human heart, 
Ere aught in written phrases can impart 
The might and meaning of that extasy 
To those low souls, who hold the mystery 
Of the unseen universe for dark and dumb. 



i So JULY. 

But we were mortal still, and when again 
We raised our mortal knees, I do not say 
That our descending spirits felt no pain 
To meet the dimness of an earthly day ; 
Yet not as those disheartened, and the more 
Debased the higher that they rose before, 
But from the exaltation of that hour, 
Out of God's choicest treasury, bringing down 
New virtue to sustain all ill, — new power 
To braid Life's thorns into a regal crown, 
We past into the outer world, to prove 
The strength miraculous of united Love. 

Lord Houghton. 



/ 






3IuIP 3 

LIFE. 



He is the happiest man, whose eye, 
Just glancing nature's majesty, 
The sun's impartial light, 

The fire, the clouds, the deep, 
The twinkling stars of night, 
Is straightway closed in sleep ; 
Whose footsteps to the distant bourn 
From whence he came, with speed return. 
For though on earth a hundred years he range, 
He shall not look on nature's change ; 
The elements the heavens so fair, 

That met his infant gaze, 
A more majestic beauty wear, 
Than aught beside displays. 

Life is a fair where thousands jostle, 
Where all is dice, and thieves, and bustle, 
All tumults fierce, and wranglings loud : 
And we are pilgrims 'mid the crowd. 



JULY. i8r 

Who would not long such scene to leave 
Ere strife or losses bid him grieve ? 

/To be the first his home to win, 

' Or rest him in some quiet inn ? 
The lingerer finds but toils unceasing, 
Sorrows, and wants, and foes increasing : 
No certain joy, no changeless friend : 
A darker life, a bitterer end. 

J. ANSTICE, from Meiiander. 



Jfulg 4- 

MOUNTAIN ECHOES. 

Yes, it was the mountain echo, 

Solitary, clear, profound, 
Answering to the shouting cuckoo, 

Giving to her sound for sound ! 

Unsolicited reply 

To a babbling wanderer sent : 
Like her ordinary cry, 

Like, but O how different ! 

Hears not also mortal Life ? 

Hear not we, unthinking creatures ! 
Slaves of folly, love, or strife — 

Voices of two different natures ? 

Have not we too ? — yes, we have 
Answers, and we know not whence , 

Echoes from beyond the grave, 
Recognised intelligence. 



[82 JULY. 

Such rebounds our inward ear 
Catches sometimes from afar — 

Listen, ponder, hold them dear ; 
For of God — of God they are. 

Wordsworth. 



lull? 5. 

BOOKS. 

BUT what strange art, what magic can dispose 
The troubled mind to change its native woes ? 
Or lead us willing from ourselves, to see 
Others more wretched, more undone than we ? 
This, Books can do ; — nor this alone, they give 
New views to life, and teach us how to live ; 
They soothe the grieved, the stubborn they chastise, 
Fools they admonish, and confirm the wise : 
Their aid they yield to all : they never shun 
The man of sorrow, nor the wretch undone : 
Unlike the hard, the selfish and the proud, 
They fly not sullen from the suppliant crowd ; 
Nor tell to various people various things, 
But show to subjects, what they show to kings. 

Yet man's best efforts taste of man, and show 
The poor and troubled source from which they 

flow : 
Where most he triumphs, we his wants perceive, 
And for his weakness in his wisdom grieve. 

Lo ! all in silence, all in order stand, 
And mighty folios, 1 first, a lordly band ; 

1 A Frenchman was asked if he liked books in folio ? " No, 
said he, " I like them \nfructu." 



JULY. i 

Then quartos their well-ordered ranks maintain, 

And light octavos fill a spacious plain : 

See yonder, ranged in more frequented rows, 

A humbler band of duodecimos ; 

While undistinguished trifles swell the scene, 

The last new play and frittered magazine. 

Thus 'tis in life, where first the proud, the great, 

In leagued assembly keep their cumbrous state ; 

Heavy and huge, they fill the world with dread, 

Are much admired, and but little read ; 

The commons next, and middle rank, are found ; 

Professions fruitful pour their offspring round ; 

Reasoners and wits are next their place allowed, 

And last, of vulgar tribes a countless crowd. 

Hence, in these times, untouch'd the pages lie, 
And slumber out their immortality : 
They had their day, when after all his toil, 
His morning study, and his midnight oil, 
At length an author's one great work appear'd, 
By patient hope, and length of days, endear'd ; 
Expecting nations hailed it from the press ; 
Poetic friends prefix'd each kind address ; 
Princes and kings received the pond'rous gift, 
And ladies read the work they could not lift. 

Crabbe, The Library. 



3ful2 6. 

PRIDE. 

If thou be one whose heart the holy forms 

Of young imagination have kept pure, 

Stranger, henceforth be warned ; and know that 

pride, 
Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, 



1 84 JULY. 



Is littleness ; that he who feels contempt 

For any living thing, hath faculties 

Which he has never used ; that thought with him 

Is in its infancy. The man whose eye 

Is ever on himself doth look on one, 

The least of Nature's works, one who might move 

The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds 

Unlawful ever. O be wiser, thou ! 

Instructed that true knowledge leads to love ; 

True dignity abides with him alone 

Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, 

Can still suspect, and still revere himself, 

In lowliness of heart. 

Wordsworth. 



1w\l 7- 

THANKFULNESS. 

LORD, in this dust Thy sovereign voice 
First quickened love divine ; 

I am all Thine, -^-Thy care and choice, 
My very praise is Thine. 

I praise Thee, while Thy providence 

In childhood frail I trace, 
For blessings given, ere dawning sense 

Could seek or scan Thy grace ; 

Blessings in boyhood's marvelling hour, 
Bright dreams, and fancyings strange 

Blessings, when reason's awful power 
Gave thought a bolder range : 

Blessings of friends, which to my door 
Unasked, unhoped, have come ; 

And, choicer still, a countless store 
Of eager smiles at home. 



JULY. 185 



Yet, Lord, in memory's fondest place 

I shrine those seasons sad, 
When, looking up, I saw Thy Face 
_ In kind austereness clad. 

I would not miss one sigh or tear, 
Heart-pang, or throbbing brow ; 

Sweet was the chastisement severe, 
And sweet its memory now. 

Yes ! let the fragrant scars abide, 

Love-tokens in Thy stead, 
Faint shadows of the spear-pierced side, 

And thorn-encompassed Head. 

And such Thy loving force be still, 

'Mid life's fierce shifting fray, 
Shaping to Truth self's froward will 

Along Thy narrow way. 

Deny me wealth ; far, far remove 

The lure of power or name ; 
Hope thrives in straits, in weakness Love, 

And Faith in this world's shame. 

J. H. Newman. 



RESIGNATION. 

There is no flock, however watched and tended, 

But one dead lamb is there ! 
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, 

But has one vacant chair ! 



1 86 JCLY. 

The air is full of farewells to the dying, 

And mournings for the dead ; 
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, 

Will not be comforted ! 

Let us be patient ! These severe afflictions 

Not from the ground arise, 
But oftentimes celestial benedictions 

Assume this dark disguise. 

We see but dimly through the mists and vapours, 

Amid these earthly damps ; 
What seem to us but sad funereal tapers 

May be Heaven's distant lamps. 

There is no death ! What seems so is transition ; 

This life of mortal breath 
Is but a suburb of the life Elysian, 

Whose portal we call death. 

She is not dead,— the child of our affection,— 

But gone unto that school 
Where she no longer needs our poor protection, 

And Christ Himself doth rule. 

In that great cloister s stillness and seclusion, 

By guardian angels led, 
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, 

She lives, whom we call dead. 

Day after day we think what she is doing 

In those bright realms of air ; 
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, 

Behold her grown more fair. 

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken 

The bond which nature gives, 
Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, 

May reach her where she lives. 



JULY. 187 

Not as a child shall we again behold her ; 

For when with raptures wild 
In our embraces we again enfold her, 

She will not be a child ; 

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, 

Clothed with celestial grace ; 
And beautiful with all the soul's expansion 

Shall we behold her face. 

And though at times impetuous with emotion 

And anguish long suppressed, 
The swelling heart heaves, moaning like the ocean, 

That cannot be at rest, — 

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling 

We may not wholly stay ; 
By silence sanctifying, not concealing, 

The grief that must have way. 

Longfellow. 



3lul£ 9. 

THE CHURCH FLOORE. 

Mark you thefloore? that square and speckled stone 
Which looks so firm and strong, 

Is Patience : 

And th' other black and grave, wherewith each one 
Is checker d all along, 

Humility. 

The gentle rising, which, on either hand, 
Leads to the Quire above, 

Is Confidence : 



1 88 JULY. 

But the sweet cement, which in one sure band 
Ties the whole frame, is Love 

And Charitie. 

Hither sometimes Sinne steals, and stains 
The marbles neat and curious veins : 

But all is cleansed when the marble weeps. 
Sometimes Death, puffing at the doore, 
Blows all the dust about the floore ; 

But while he thinks to spoil the room, he sweeps. 
Blest be the Architect, whose art 
Could build so strong in a weak heart. 

George Herbert, The Church. 



3fulp 10. 

POETRY. 

TIME was, a sober Englishman would knock 

His servants up, and rise by five o'clock ; 

Instruct his family in every rule, 

And send his wife to church, his son to school ; 

To worship like his fathers was his care ; 

To teach his frugal virtues to his heir ; 

To prove that luxury could never hold ; 

And place, on good security, his gold. 

Now times are chang'd, and one poetic itch 

Has seiz'd the court and city, poor and rich : 

Sons, sires, and grandsires, all will wear the bays, 

Our wives read Milton, and our daughters plays ; 

To theatres, and to rehearsals throng, 

And all our grace at table is a song. 

I, who so oft renounce the Muses, lie, 

Not 's self e'er tells more fibs than I, 

When sick of muse, our follies we deplore, 

And promise our best friends to rhyme no more ; 



JULY. 189 

We wake next morning in a raging fit, 
And call for pen and ink to show our wit. 

Of little use the man you may suppose, 
Who says in verse what others say in prose ; 
Yet let me show, a poet's of some weight, 
And (tho' no soldier) useful to the state. 
What will a child learn sooner than a song ? 
What better teach a foreigner the tongue ? 
What's long or short, each accent where to place, 
And speak in public with some sort of grace. 
I scarce can think him such a worthless thing, 
Unless he praise some monster of a king, 
Or virtue, or religion, turn to sport, 
To please a lewd or unbelieving court. 

How could devotion touch the country-pews, 
Unless the gods bestow'd a proper muse ? 
Verse cheers their leisure, verse assists their work, 
Verse prays for peace, or sings down Pope and Turk. 
The silenc'd preacher yields to potent strain, 
And feels that grace his pray'r besought in vain ; 
The blessing thrills thro' all the lab'ring throng, 
And Heav'n is won by violence of song. 

Pope, Imitations of Horace. 



3(ul2 11. 

A GOOD man ther was of religioun, 

That was a poure persone of a toun : 

But riche he was of holy thought and werk, 

He was also a lerned man, a clerk, 

That Criste's gospel trewely wolde preche, 

His parishens devoutly wolde he teche, 



190 JULY. 

Benigne he was, and wonder diligent, 

And in adversite ful patient : 

And swiche he was ypreved often sithes, 

Ful loth were him to cursen for his tithes, 

But rather wolde he yeven out of doute, 

Unto his poure parishens aboute, 

Of his ofrring, and eke of his substance, 

He coude in litel thing have suffisance, 

Wide was his parish, and houses fer asondcr, 

But he ne left nought for no rain ne thondcr, 

In sickenesse and in mischief to visite 

The ferrest in his parish, moche and lite, 

Upon his fete, and in his hand a staff. 

This noble ensample to his shepe he yaf, 

That first he wrought, and afterward he taught, 

Out of the gospel he the wordes caught, 

And this figure he added yet thereto, 

That if golde ruste, what shuld iren do ? 

Well ought a preeste ensample for to yevc, 
By his clenenesse, how his shepe should live. 
He was a shepherd, and no mercenarie. 
And tho' he holy were, and vertuous, 
He was to sinful men not dispitous, 
Xe of his speche dangerous ne digne, 
But in his teching discrete and benigne. 
To drawen folk to heaven, with fairnessc, 
By good ensample was his besinesse. 

Chaucer, Pro I. Canterbury Talcs. 

3lul2 12. 

COMPARISON. 

The lake lay hid in mist, and to the sand 

The little billows hastened silently 

Came sparkling on, in many a gladsome band, 



JULY. 19] 

Soon as they touched the shore all doomed to die. 

I gazed upon them with a pensive eye, 

For, on that dim and melancholy strand, 

I saw the image of man's destiny, 

So hurry we right onwards thoughtlessly, 

Unto the coast of that Eternal Land. 

Where, like the worthless billows in their glee, 

The first faint touch unable to withstand, 

We melt at once into eternity. 

O Thou who weighest the waters in Thine Hand, 

My awe-struck spirit puts her trust in Thee. 



3fuie 13. 

SOUND SLEEP. 

SOME are laughing, some are weeping : 
She is sleeping, only sleeping. 
Round her rest wild flowers are creeping ; 
There the wind is heaping, heaping 
Sweetest sweets of summer's keeping, 
By the cornfields ripe for reaping. 

There are lilies, and there blushes 
The deep rose, and there the thrushes 
Sing till latest sunlight flushes 
In the west ; a fresh wind brushes 
Through the leaves while evening hushes. 

There by day the lark is singing, 
And the grass and weeds are springing ; 
There by night the bat is winging ; 
There for ever winds are bringing 
Far-off chimes of church bells ringing. 



192 JULY. 

Night and morning, noon and even, 
Their sounds fill her dreams with Heaven : 
The long strife at length is striven : 
Till her grave bands shall be riven, 
Such is the good portion given 
To her soul at rest and shriven. 

Christina Rossetti. 



3fulp 14. 

PRAYER. 

Be not afraid to pray — to pray is right, 
Pray, if thou canst with hope ; but ever pray, 
Though hope be weak, or sick with long delay : 
Pray in the darkness, if there be no light. 
Far is the time, remote from human sight, 
When war and discord on the earth shall cease ; 
Yet every prayer for universal peace 
Avails the blessed time to expedite. 
Whate'er is good to wish, ask that of Heaven, 
Though it be what thou canst not hope to see : 
Pray to be perfect, though material leaven 
Forbid the spirit so on earth to be ; 
Rut if for any wish thou dar'st not pray, 
Then pray to God to cast that wish away. 

Hartley Coleridge. 



3ful? 15- 

to dianeme. 

Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes, 
Which, starlike, sparkle in their skies ; 
Nor be you proud, that you can see 
All hearts your captives, yours yet free ; 



JULY. 193 

Be not you proud of that rich haire, 
Which wantons with the lovesick aire ; 
When as that rubie which you weare, 
Sunk from the tip of your soft eare, 
Will last to be a precious stone, 
When all your world of beautie's gone ! 

Herrick, Hespcrides. 

3(ule 16. 

THE LAST KISS. 

Take the last kiss, — the last for ever ! 

Yet render thanks amidst your gloom : 
He, severed from his home and kindred, 

Is passing onwards to the tomb ; 
For earthly labours, earthly pleasures, 

And carnal joys, he cares no more : 
Where are his kinsfolk and acquaintance ? 

They stand upon another shore. 
Let us say, around him pressed, 
Grant him, Lord, eternal rest ! 

The hour of woe and separation, 

The hour of falling tears is this. 
Him that so lately was among us 

For the last time of all we kiss : 
Up to the grave to be surrendered, 

Sealed with the monumental stone, 
A dweller in the house of darkness, 

Amidst the dead to lie alone. 
Let us say, around him pressed, 
Grant him, Lord, eternal rest. 

What is our life ? a fading flower ; 

A vapour, passing soon away ; 
The dew-drops of the early morning : — 

Come, gaze upon the tombs to-day. 
O 



■ 9\ JULY. 

Where now is youth? where now is beauty? 

And grace of form, and sparkling eye ? 
All, like the summer grass, are withered ; 
All are abolished utterly. 

While our eyes with grief grow dim, 
Let us weep to Christ for him. 

Behold and weep we, friends and brethren ! 

Voice, sense, and breath, and motion gone ! 
But yesterday I dwelt among you ! 

Then death's most fearful hour came on. 
Embrace me with the last embracement ; 

Kiss me with this, the latest kiss : 
Never again shall I be with you, 

Never with you share woe or bliss. 
I go toward the dread tribunal 

Where no man's person is preferred ; 
Where lord and slave, where chief and soldier. 

Where rich and poor alike are heard : 
( >ne i-- the manner of their judgment, 

Their plea anil their condition one : 
And they shall reap in woe or glory. 

The earthly deeds that they have done. 

I pray you, brethren, I adjure you, 

Pour forth to Christ the ceaseless prayer, 

He would not doom me to Gehenna, 
But in His glory give me share I 

J. M. Neale. 

3fulg 17- 

CHANCE. 

O CHANCE, suggesting many a plan, 
Attaining many an end for man, 
How oft, when wisdom's titles shine, 
And craft claims praise, the work is thine ! 



JULY. , 9S 

Our woe's our own ; from thee we borrow 
More oft the taste of joy than sorrow. 
Grace shines around thy golden wing, 

Thy wand can bliss bestow, 
Thy bounties to thy chosen fling 

The brightest lot below. 
And, when afflictions round us hover, 

'Tis thine to point the way, 
And in that midnight gloom discover 

The opening light of day. 
Well at thy shrine may mortals bow, 

. The mightiest of the gods art thou. 

J. Anstice : from /Eschylus. 

3fuie 1 8. 

MEMORY. 

I have a room whereinto no one enters, 

Save I myself alone : 
There sits a blessed memory on a throne, 

There my life centres. 

While winter comes and goes — O tedious comer ! — 

And while its nip-wind blows : 
While bloom the bloodless lily and warm rose 

Of lavish summer. 

If any should force entrance he might see there 

One buried yet not dead, 
Before whose face I no more bow my head 

Or bend my knee there ; 

But often in my worn life's autumn weather 

I watch there with clear eyes, 
And think how it will be in Paradise 

When we're together. 

Christina Rossetti. 



196 JUL V. 



Ifulp 19- 

O FOR one minute hark what we arc saying ! 
This is not pleasure that we ask of Thee ! 
Nay, let all life be weary with our praying, 
Streaming of tears, and bending of the knee : — 

Only we ask thro' shadows of the valley 
Stay of Thy staff and guiding of Thy rod, 
Only, when rulers of the darkness rally, 
Be Thou beside us, very near, O God ! 

Frederic W. H. Myers. 



3iul£ 20. 

THE PATIENCE OF THE POOR. 

. . . The people's honest child, 
The field flower of the open sky, 
Ready to live while winds are wild, 
Nor, when they soften, loth to die : 
To him there never came a thought 
That this his life was meant to be 
A pleasure-house, where peace unbought 
Should minister to pride or glee. 

You oft may hear him murmur loud 
Against the uneven lots of Fate, 
You oft may see him inly bowed 
Beneath affliction's weight on weight :— 
But rarely turns he on his grief 
A face of petulant surprise, 
Or scorns whate'er benign relief 
The hand of God or man supplies. 



JULY. 197 

This great endurance of each ill, 
As a plain fact whose right or wrong 
They question not, confiding still, 
That it shall last not over-long ; 
Willing, from first to last, to take 
The mysteries of our life, as given ; 
Leaving the time-worn soul to slake 
Its thirst in an undoubted Heaven. 

Lord Houghton. 



1w\t 21. 

/~THE OLIVE TREE. I 

Said an ancient hermit, bending 
Half in prayer upon his knee, 
"Oil I need for midnight watching, 
I desire an olive tree." 

Then he took a tender sapling, 

Planted it before his cave, 
Spread his trembling hands above it, 

As his benison he gave. 

But he thought, the rain it needeth, 
That the root may drink and swell : 
" God ! I pray Thee send Thy showers ! " 
So a gentle shower fell. 

" Lord ! I ask for beams of summer, 
Cherishing this little child." 
Then the dripping clouds divided, 

And the sun looked down and smiled. 



198 JULY. 



" Send it frost to brace its tissues, 
my God !" the hermit cried. 
Then the plant was bright and hoary, 

But at evensong it died. 

Went the hermit to a brother 
Sitting in his rocky cell : 
" Thou an olive tree possessest ; 
How is this, my brother, tell ? 

" I have planted one, and prayed, 
Now for sunshine, now for rain : 
God hath granted each petition, 
Yet my olive tree hath slain !" 

f Said the other, " I intrusted 
To its God my little tree ; 
He who made knew what it needed 
Better than a man like me. 

"Laid I on Him no conditions, 

Fixed not ways and means, so I 
Wonder not my olive thriveth, 

Whilst thy olive tree did die.'' 

S. Baring Gould. 



3!ulp 22. 

THE WORTH OF HOURS. 

Believe not that your inner eye 
Can ever in just measure try 
The worth of hours as they go by. 

For every man's weak self, alas ! 
Makes him to see them, as they pass, 
As thro' a dim or tinted glass : 



JULY. 199 



But if in earnest care you would 
Mete out to each its part of good, 
Trust rather to your after mood. 

Those surely are not fairly spent, 
That leave your spirit bowed and bent 
In sad unrest and ill-content : 

And more, — tho' free from seeming harm, 

You rest from toil of mind or arm, 

Or slow retire from Pleasure's charm, — 

If then a painful sense comes on 
Of something wholly lost and gone, 
Vainly enjoyed, or vainly done, — 

Of something from your being's chain 
Broke off, not to be linked again 
By all mere memory can retain, — 

Upon your heart this truth may rise, — 
Nothing that altogether dies 
Suffices man's just destinies. 

So should we live, that every Hour 
May die as dies the natural flower 
A self-reviving thing of power, — 

That every Thought and every Deed 
May hold within itself the seed 
Of future good and future mead ; 

Esteeming sorrow, whose employ 
Is to develop not destroy, 
Far better than a barren joy. 

Lord Houghton. 



JUL Y. 



3fuie 23. 

BALLAD. 

If doughty deeds my ladye please, 
Right soon 111 mount my steed ; 
And strong his arm and fast his seat, 

That bears frae me the meed. 
I'll wear thy colours in my cap, 

Thy picture at my heart ; 
And he that bends not to thine eye. 
Shall rue it to his smart. 

Then tell me how to woo thee, love, 
O tell me how to woo thee ! 
For thy dear sake, nae care 111 take, 
Tho' ne'er another trow me. 

If gay attire delight thine eye, 

I'll dight me in array : 
I'll tend thy chamber door all night, 

And squire thee all the day. 
If sweetest sounds can win thy ear, 
These sounds I'll strive to catch ; 
Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysell, 
That voice that nane can match. 

Then tell me how to woo thee, love, 
O tell me how to woo thee ! 
For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take, 
Tho' ne'er another trow me. 

But if fond love thy heart can gain, 

I never broke a vow ; 
Nae maiden lays her skaith to me, 

I never loved but you. 



JUL Y. 20 

For you alone I ride the ring, 

For you I wear the blue ; 
For you alone I strive to sing, 
O tell me how to woo ! 

O tell me how to woo thee, love, 
O tell me how to woo thee ! 
For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take, 
Tho' ne'er another trow me ! 

Graham of Gartmore. 

3[ul* 24. 

SIC ITUR. 

As, at a railway junction, men 
Who came together, taking then 
One the train up, one down, again 

Meet never ! Ah, much more as they 
Who take one street's two sides, and say 
Hard parting words, but walk one way : 

Though moving other mates between, 
While carts and coaches intervene, 
Each to the other goes unseen, 

Yet seldom, surely, shall there lack 
Knowledge they walk not back to back, 
But with an unity of track, 

Where common dangers each attend, 
And common hopes their guidance lend 
To light them to the self-same end. 

Whether he then shall cross to thee, 

Or thou go thither, or it be 

Some midway point, ye yet shall see 



202 JULY. 

Each other, yet again shall meet. 
Ah joy ! when with the closing street, 
Forgivingly at last ye greet ! 

A. H. Clough. 



3fu!*25. 

THE CID AND THE LEPER. 

He has ta'en some twenty gentlemen, along with 

him to go, 
For he will pay that ancient vow he to Saint James 

cloth owe, 
To Campostella, where the shrine doth by the altar 

stand. 
The good Rodrigo de Bivar is riding thro' the 

land. 

Where'er he goes, much alms he throws, to feeble 

folk and poor ; 
Beside the way for him they pray, him blessings to 

procure ; 
For, God and Mary Mother, their heavenly grace 

to win 
His hand was ever bountiful ; great was his joy 

therein. 

And there in middle of the path, a leper did appear : 
In a deep slough the leper lay ; to help none would 

come near, 
Tho' earnestly to them did cry, " For God our 

Saviour's sake, 
From out this fearful jeopardy a Christian brother 

take ! " 



JUL Y. 203 

When Roderick heard that piteous word, he from 

his horse came down ; 
For all they said no stay he made, that noble 

champion, 
He reached his hand to pluck him forth, of fear was 

no account, 
Then mounted on his steed of worth, and made the 

leper mount. 

Behind him rode the leprous man ; when to their 
hostelrie 

They came, he made him eat with him at table 
cheerfully ; 

While all the rest from that poor guest with loath- 
ing shrunk away, 

To his own bed the wretch he led, beside him there 
he lay. 

All at the mid-hour of the night, while good Rodrigo 

slept, 
A breath came from the leper which thro' his 

shoulders crept ; 
Right thro' the body, by the heart, passed forth 

that breathing cold ; 
I wot he leaped up with a start, in terrors manifold. 

He groped for him in the bed, but him he could not find, 
Thro' the dark chamber groped he, with sore and 

anxious mind ; 
Loudly he lifted up his voice, with speed a lamp 

was brought, 
Yet nowhere was the leper seen, tho' far and near 

they sought. 

He turned him to his chamber, God wot ! perplexed 

sore 
With that which had befallen— when lo ! his face 

before, 



20 4 JULY. 

There stood a man all clothed in vesture shining 

white ; 
Thus said the vision, " Sleepest thou, or wakest 

thou, Sir Knight ?" 

" I sleep not," quoth Rodrigo, "but tell me who art 

thou. 
For in the midst of darkness, much light is on thy 

brow ? ■ 
" I am the holy Lazarus, I come to speak with thee; 
I am the same poor leper thou savedst for charity. 

"Not vain the trial, nor in vain thy victory hath 

been ; 
God favours thee, for that my pain thou didst 

relieve yestreen. 
There shall be honour with thee, in battle and in 

peace, 
Success in all thy doings, and plentiful increase. 

"Strong enemies shall not prevail thy greatness to 

undo ; 
Thy name shall make men's cheeks full pale — 

Christians and Moslems too : 
A death of honour shalt thou die, such grace to thee 

is given, 
Thy soul shalt part victoriously, and be received in 

heaven." 

When he these gracious words had said, the spirit 

vanished quite. 
Rodrigo rose and knelt him down, — he knelt till 

morning light : 
Unto the heavenly Father, and Mary Mother dear, 
He made his prayer right humbly, till dawned the 

morning clear. 

J. G. LOCKHART, Spanish Ballads. 



JULY. 205 



Jul? 26. 

How do I love thee ? Let me count the ways. 

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height 

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight 

For the ends of being and ideal grace. 

I love thee to the level of every day's 

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. 

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right, 

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. 

I love thee with the passion put to use 

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. 

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose 

With my lost saints — I love thee with the breath, 

Smiles, tears, of all my life ! and, if God choose, 

I shall but love thee better after death. 

Elizabeth B. Browning. 



Jul* 27. 

A QUESTION. 

Joy comes and goes, hope ebbs and flows 

Like the wave ; 
Change doth unknit the tranquil strength of men. 
Love lends life a little grace, 
A few sad smiles ; and then, 
Both are laid in one cold place, 
In the grave. 

Dreams dawn and fly, friends smile and die 

Like spring flowers ; 
Our vaunted life is one long funeral. 
Men dig graves with bitter tears 
For their dead hopes ; and all, 
Mazed with doubts and sick with fears, 
Count the hours. 



206 JULY. 

We count the hours ! These dreams of ours, 

False and hollow, 
Do we go hence and find they are not dead ? 
Joys we dimly apprehend, 
Faces that smiled and fled, 
Hopes born here, and born to end, 
Shall we follow ? 

Matthew Arnold. 



31uie 28. 

ON A GRAVE AT GRINDELWALD. 

1 1 ERE let us leave him ; for his shroud the snow, 
For funeral-lamps he has the planets seven, 

For a great sign the icy stair shall go 
Between the heights to Heaven. 

One moment stood he as the angels stand, 
High in the stainless eminence of air ; 

The next, he was not :— to his fatherland 
Translated unaware. 

Frederic W. H. Myers. 



Ifulp 29. 

WORK. 

What are we set on earth for? Say, to toil ; 
Nor seek to leave the tending of thy vines 
For all the heat of the day, till it declines, 
And Death's mild curfew shall from work assoil. 



JUL Y. 207 

God did anoint thee with His odorous oil, 

To wrestle, not to reign ; and He assigns 

All thy tears over, like pure crystallines, 

For younger fellow-workers of the soil 

To wear for amulets. So others shall 

Take patience, labour, to their heart and hand, 

From thy hand and thy heart and thy brave cheer, 

And God's grace fructify through thee to all, 

The least flower, with a brimming cup may stand, 

And share its dewdrop with another near. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



3ful* 30. 

O SODEN wo, that ever art successour 
To worldly blis ; spreint is with bitternesse 
The ende of the joye of our worldly labour 
Wo occupieth the fyn of our gladnesse, 
Herken this conseil for thy sikernesse : 
Upon thy gladde day have in thy minde 
The unaware wo of harm, that cometh behinde. 
Chaucer, Man oJLawes Tale. 



lulv 31. 

MAN. 

Know then thyself, presume not God to scan, 
The proper study of Mankind is Man : 
Plac'd on this isthmus of a middle state, 
A being darkly wise, and rudely great : 
With too much knowledge for the sceptic side, 
With too much weakness for the Stoic's pride 
He hangs between ; in doubt to act, or rest ; 
In doubt to deem himself a god, or beast ; 



208 JULY. 

In doubt his mind or body to prefer ; 
Born but to die, and reas'ning but to err ; 
Alike in ignorance, his reason such, 
Whether he thinks too little or too much : 
Chaos of thought and passion, all confus'd ; 
Still by himself abus'd, or disabus'd ; 
Created half to rise, and half to fall ; 
Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all. 
Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurl'd ; 
The glory, jest, and riddle of the world ! 
Go, wondrous creature ! mount where science 

guides, 
Go, measure earth, weigh air, and state the tides 
Instruct the planets in what orbs to run, 
Correct old Time, and regulate the sun ; 
(io. -oar with Plato to tlr empyreal sphere, 
To the first good, first perfect, ami first fair ; 
Or tread the mazy round his followers trod, 
And quitting sense call imitating God : 
As eastern priests in giddy circles run, 
And turn their heads to imitate the sun. 
Go, teach Eternal Wisdom how to rule — 
Then drop into thyself, and be a fool ! 

POPE, Essay on Man. 



A UGUST. 209 



QUQUSt I. 
EAST LONDON. 

'Twas August, and the fierce sun overhead 
Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green, 
And the pale weaver, through his windows seen 
In Spitalfields, look'd thrice dispirited. 

I met a preacher there I knew, and said : 
" 111 and o'erworked, how fare you in this scene?" 
" Bravely ! " said he ; " for I of late have been 
Much cheer'd with thoughts of Christ, the Living 
Bread." 

O human soul ! as long as thou canst so 
Set up a mark of everlasting light, 
Above the howling senses' ebb and flow, 
To cheer thee, and to right thee if thou roam — 
Not with lost toil thou labourest through the night ! 
Thou mak'st the heaven thou hop'st indeed thy 
home. 

Matthew Arnold. 



&UQU8t 2. 
AT FLORENCE. 

Eternal Lord ! eased of a cumbrous load, 
And loosened from the world, I turn to Thee ; 
Shun, like a shattered bark, the storm, and flee 
To Thy protection for a safe abode. 
P 



2io AUGUST. 



The crown of thorns, hands pierced upon the tree, 
The meek, benign, and lacerated Face, 
To a sincere repentance promise grace, 
To the sad soul give hope of pardon free. 
With justice mark not Thou, O Light divine 
My fault, nor hear it with Thy sacred ear ; 
Neither put forth that way Thy arm severe ; 
Wash with Thy Blood my sins ; thereto incline 
More readily the more my years require 
Help, and forgiveness speedy and entire. 

Michael Angelo, trans, by Wordsworth. 



9uGU0t 3- 

TEARS though they're here below the sinners' brine, 
Above, they are the angels' spiced wine. 

IF little labour, little are our gains; 
Alan's fortunes are according to his pains. 

Herrick. 



r 



aueuat 4- 
friendship and love. 



. . . But there are 
Richer entanglements, enthralments far 
More self-destroying, leading by degrees, 
To the chief intensity : the crown of these 
Is made of love and friendship, and sits high 
Upon the forehead of humanity. 



AUGUST. 



All its more ponderous and bulky worth 

Is friendship, whence there ever issues forth 

A steady splendour ; but at the tip-top, 

There hangs by unseen film, an orbed drop 

Of light, and that is love : its influence 

Thrown in our eyes genders a novel sense, 

At which we start and fret : till in the end, 

Melting into its radiance, we blend, 

Mingle, and so become a part of it, — 

Nor with aught else can our souls interknit 

So wingedly : when we combine therewith, 

Life's self is nourish'd by its proper pith, 

And we are nurtured like a pelican brood. 

Ay, so delicious is the unsating food, 

That men, who might have tower'd in the van 

Of all the congregated world, to fan 

And winnow from the coming step of time 

All chaff of custom, wipe away all slime 

Left by men-slugs and human serpentry, 

Have been content to let occasion die, 

Whilst they did sleep in love's Elysium. 

And truly, I would rather be struck dumb, 

Than speak against this ardent listlessness : 

For I have ever thought that it might bless 

The world with benefits unknowingly ; 

As does the nightingale, up-perched high, 

And cloistered among cool and bunched leaves — 

She sings but to her love, nor e'er conceives, 

How tiptoe Night holds back her dark-grey hood. 

Just so may love, although 'tis understood 

The mere commingling of passionate breath, 

Produce more than our searching vvitnesseth ; 

What I know not ; but who, of men, can tell 

That flowers would bloom, or that green fruit 

would swell 
To melting pulp, that fish would have bright mail, 
The earth its dower of river, wood, and vale, 



A [/GUST. 



The meadows runnels, runnels pebble stones, 
The seed its harvest, or the lute its tones, 
Tones ravishment, or ravishment its sweet, 
If human souls did never kiss and greet? 

Keats, Endymion. 



3uG»0t 5. 

THE CHURCH. 

"What is a Church?" Let Truth and Reason 

speak, 
They would reply, "The faithful, pure, and meek : 
From Christian folds, the one selected race, 
Of all professions, and in every place." 
"What is a Church ?* ; kl A flock," our vicar cries, 
"Whom bishops govern and whom priests advise ; 
Wherein are various states and due degrees, 
The bench for honour, and the stall for ease ; 
That ease be mine, which, after all his cares, 
The pious, peaceful prebendary shares." 
" What is a Church ?" Our honest sexton tells, 
'"Tis a tall building with a tower and bells ; 
Where priest and clerk, with joint exertion strive 
To keep the ardour of their flock alive ; 
That, — by his periods eloquent and grave ; 
This,— by responses and a well-set stave ; 
These for the living ; but when life be fled, 
I toll myself the requiem for the dead." 
'Tis to this Church I call thee, and that place 
Where slept our fathers when they'd run their race ; 
We too shall rest, and then our children keep 
Their road in life, and then forgotten, sleep : 
Meanwhile the building slowly foils away, 
And like the builders, will in time decay. 

Crabbe, The Borough. 



AUGUST. 213 



SECTS. 

Minds are for sects of various kinds decreed, 
As diff'rent soils are form'd for diff'rent seed ; 
Some when converted sigh in sore amaze, 
And some are wrapt in joy's ecstatic blaze ; 
Others again will change to each extreme, 
They know not why, as hurried in a dream : 
Unstable they, like water, take all forms, 
Are quick and stagnant ; have their calms and 

storms ; 
High on the hills they in the sunbeams glow, 
Then muddily they move debased and slow ; 
Or cold and frozen rest, and neither rise nor flow. 

Here are, who all the Church maintains approve, 

But yet the Church herself they will not love : 

In angry speech they blame the carnal tie, 

Which pure religion lost her spirit by : 

What time from prisons, flames and tortures led, 

She slumber'd careless in a royal bed ; 

To make, they add, the Church's glory shine, 

Should Diocletian reign, not Constantine. 

. . . And now behold 
The Church of Rome, who here is poor and old : 
Use not triumphant rail'ry, or at least 
Let not thy ancient mother be a beast : 
Great was her pride indeed in ancient times, 
Yet shall we think of nothing but her crimes ? 
Exalted high above all earthly things, 
She placed her foot upon the neck of kings ; 



214 AUGUST. 



But some have deeply since avenged the crown, 
And thrown her glory and her honours down : 



We've Baptists old and new, — forbear to ask 
What the distinction — I decline the task ! 
This I perceive, that when a sect grows old, 
Converts are few, and the converted cold : 



Some Swedenborgians in our streets are found, 
Those wandering walkers on enchanted ground, 
Who in our world can other worlds survey, 
And speak with spirits though confined in clay : 
But while these gifted men, a favoured fold, 
New powers exhibit and new worlds behold, 
Is there not danger lest their minds confound 
The pure above them with the gross around? 
Alas ! too sure on both they bring disgrace, 
Their earth is crazy, and their heaven is base ! 



Jews are with us, but far unlike to those 
Who, led by David, warr'd with Israel's foes : 
Unlike to those whom his imperial son 
Taught truths divine — the Preacher Solomon 
Nor war nor wisdom yield our Jews delight, 
They will not study, and they dare not fight. 



More might I add : I might describe the flocks 
Made by seceders from the ancient stocks ; 
Those who will not to any guide submit, 
Nor find one creed to their conceptions fit — 
Each sect, they judge, in something goes astray, 
And every church has lost the certain way. 

Crabbe, The Borough. 



AUGUST. 215 



9lIGU0t 7. 

A THING of beauty is a joy for ever : 

Its loveliness increases ; it will never 

Pass into nothingness ; but still will keep 

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing, 

Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing 

A flowery band to bind us to the earth, 

Spite of despondence, of th' inhuman dearth 

Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, 

Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways, 

Made for our searching : yes, in spite of all, 

Some shape of beauty moves away the pall 

From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, 

Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon 

For simple sheep ; and such are daffodils 

With the green world they live in ; and clear rills 

That for themselves a cooling covert make 

'Gainst the hot season ; the mid-forest brake, 

Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms : 

And such too is the grandeur of the dooms 

We have imagin'd for the mighty dead ; 

All lovely tales that we have heard or read : 

An endless fountain of immortal drink, 

Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. 

Nor do we merely feel these essences 

For one short hour ; no, even as the trees 

That whisper round a temple become soon 

Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon, 

The passion poesy, glories infinite, 

Haunt us till they become a cheering light 

Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast, 

That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast, 

They always must be with us, or we die. 

Keats, Endymion. 



216 AUGUST. 



HEAVENBORN BEAUTY. 

It came, I know not whence, from far above, 

That clear immortal flame that still doth rise 
Within thy sacred breast, and fills the skies, 
And heals all hearts, and adds to heaven new 
love. 

This burns me, this, and the pure light thereof ; 
Not thy fair face, thy sweet untroubled eyes : 
For love that is not love for aught that dies, 
Dwells in the soul where no base passions move. 

If then such loveliness upon its own 

Should graft new beauties in a mortal birth, 
The sheath bespeaks the shining blade within. 

To gain our love God hath not clearer shown 

Himself elsewhere : thus heaven doth vie with 

earth, 
To make thee worthy worship without sin. 
Michael Angelo (J. A. Symonds). 



aufliwt 9. 

Beneath an Indian palm a girl 

Of other blood reposes, 
Her cheek is clear and pale as pearl 

Amid that wild of roses. 

Beside a northern pine a boy 

Is leaning fancy-bound, 
Nor listens where with noisy joy 

Awaits the impatient hound. 



AUGUST. 217 



Cool grows the sick and feverish calm — 

Relaxed the frosty twine, — 
The pine-tree dreameth of the palm 

The palm-tree of the pine. 

As soon shall nature interlace 
Those dimly visioned boughs, 

As these young lovers face to face 
Renew their early vows i 

Lord Houghton. 



Qwust 10. 

TWICE. 

I TOOK my heart in my hand 

(O my love, O my love), 
I said : Let me fall or stand, 

Let me live or die, 
But this once hear me speak — 

(O my love, O my love) — 
Yet a woman's words are weak ; 

You should speak, not I. 

You took my heart in your hand 

With a friendly smile, 
With a critical eye you scanned, 

Then set it down, 
And said : It is still unripe, 

Better wait awhile ; 
Wait while the skylarks pipe, 

Till the corn grows brown. 



2i8 AUGUST. 



As you set it down it broke — 

Broke, but I did not wince ; 
I smiled at the speech you spoke, 

At your judgment that I heard : 
But I have not often smiled 

Since then, nor questioned since, 
Nor cared for corn-flowers wild, 

Nor sung with the singing bird. 

I take my heart in my hand, 

O my God, O my God, 
My broken heart in my hand : 

Thou hast seen, judge Thou. 
My hope was written on sand, 

my God, O my God, 
Now let Thy judgment stand — 

Yea, judge me now. 

This contemned of a man, 

This marred one heedless day, 
This heart take Thou to scan 

Both within and without ; 
Refine with fire its gold, 

Purge Thou its dross away — 
Yea, hold it in Thy hold, 

Whence none can pluck it out. 

I take my heart in my hand — 

1 shall not die, but live — 
Before Thy Face I stand ; 

I, for Thou callest such : 
All that I have I bring, 

All that I am I give, 
Smile Thou and I shall sing, 

But shall not question much. 

Christina Rossetti. 



AUGUST. 219 



&UGU0t 11. 

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, 
So do our minutes hasten to their end : 
Each changing place with that which goes before, 
In sequent toil all forwards do contend. 
Nativity, once in the main of light, 
Crawls to maturity, where with being crown'd, 
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight, 
And Time, that gave, doth now his gift confound. 
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth, 
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow ; 
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, 
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow. 
And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand, 
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand. 

Shakespeare, Sonnet LX. 



aucust 12. 

It is not the tear at this moment shed, 

When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him, 
That can tell how beloved was the friend that's fled, 

Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him. 
'Tis the tear through many a long day wept, 

Through a life by his loss all shaded ; 
'Tis the sad remembrance, fondly kept, 

When all lighter griefs have faded ! 

Oh thus shall we mourn, and his memory's light, 
While it shines through our hearts, will improve 
them ; 

For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright, 
When we think how he lived but to love them ! 



ACGUST. 



And as buried saints have shed perfume 
Through shrines where they've been lying, 

So our hearts shall borrow a sweetening bloom 
From the image he left there in dying ! 

T. Moore. 



aucust 13. 

INNOCENT child and snow-white flower, 
Well are ye paired in your opening hour, 
Thus should the pure and the lovely meet, 
Stainless with stainless, and sweet with sweet. 

White as those leaves just blown apart 
Are the folds of thy own young heart ; 
Guilty passion and cankering care 
Never have left their traces there. 

Artless one ! tho' thou gazest now 

O'er the white blossom with earnest brow, 

Soon will it tire thy childish eye ; 

Fair as it is, thou wilt throw it by, 



irer 



Throw it aside in thy weary hour, 
Throw to the ground the fair white flow 
Vet, as thy tender years depart, 
Keep that white and innocent heart. 

William Cullen Bryant, 



aucufit 14. 

In such a world, so thorny, and where none 
Finds happiness unblighted, or, if found 
Without some thistly sorrow at its side, 
It seems the part of wisdom, and no sin, 



AUGUST. 



Against the law of love, to measure lots 
With less distinguished than ourselves ; that thus 
We may with patience bear our moderate ills, 
And sympathise with others suff'ring more. 

All flesh is grass, and all its glory fades 

Like the fair flower dishevell'd in the wind ; 

Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream. 

Nothing is proof against the general curse 

Of vanity, that seizes all below. 

The only amaranthine flower on earth 

Is virtue ; the only lasting treasure truth. 

But what is truth ? 'Twas Pilate's question put 

To Truth itself, that deign'd him no reply : 

And wherefore? will not God impart His light 

To them that ask it ? — Freely — 'tis His joy, 

His glory, and His nature, to impart ; 

But to the proud, uncandid, insincere, 

Or negligent inquirer, not a spark. 

Cowper, The Task. 



3u8U0t 15. 

A STORY FROM ^LIAN. 

A TROOP of boys went bathing to the sea, 
All fair, but one the first in youthful bloom : 
Him marked a Dolphin, tenderest of his kind, 
Far off, and joined his gambols in the wave. 
And a great love grew up between the twain : 
For day by day the boy came to the shore, 
And day by day the faithful fish was there, 
And on his back would bear him merrily 
Amid the dashing waves, a burden dear. 



222 A UGUST. 



But on an unblest morn, what time their mirth 

Was happiest, and the boy in trustful glee 

Upon his friend had stretched his limbs at length, 

And backward leaned, and shouted to his steed, 

Ah me, the sharp spear of the Dolphin's fin 

Pierced his fair side and spilt his tender life. 

So there was no more play between the twain. 

But that poor fish, perceiving how the foam 

Was crimsoned all with blood about his track, 

And the sweet voice, which was his music, hushed, 

Knew that all joy was slain, and agony 

Seized him, and he desired himself to die. 

So to the beach he bore him mournfully 

Amid the dashing waves, a burden dear ; 

And on the beach he laid him softly down, 

And by his side gave up his grieving soul. 

But the boy's comrades, sorrowing for their mate, 

Took up the corpse and washed it of the blood, 

And laid it in a grave beside the sea, 

Beside the sea, beneath the yellow sand, 

And by his side they laid the Dolphin dead 

Remembering that great love he bare the boy. 

Ernest Myers. 



auGttflt 1 6. 

SIMMER. 

How calm, how beautiful comes on 
The stilly hour, when storms are gone 
When warring winds have died away, 
And clouds, beneath the glancing ray, 
Melt off, and leave the land and sea 
Sleeping in bright tranquillity, — 
Fresh as if Day again were born, 
Again upon the lap of morn ! 
When the light blossoms, rudely torn 



AUGUST. 



And scattered at the whirlwind's will, 
Hang floating in the pure air still, 
Filling it all with precious balm, 
In gratitude for this sweet calm ; — 
And every drop the thunder showers 
Have left upon the grass and flowers 
Sparkles, as 'twere that lightning gem 
Whose liquid flame is born of them. 
When 'stead of one unchanging breeze, 
There blow a thousand gentle airs, 
And each a different perfume bears, — 
As if the loveliest plants and trees 
Had vassal breezes of their own 
To watch and wait on them alone, 
And waft no other breath than theirs ! 
When the blue waters rise and fall, 
In sleepy sunshine mantling all ; 
And ev'n that swell the tempest leaves 
Is like the full and silent heaves 
Of lovers' hearts, when newly blest, 
Too newly to be quite at rest. 

T. Moore, Lalla Rookh. 



3u8U0t 17. 

Few rightly estimate the worth 
Of joys that spring and fade on earth : 
They are not weeds we should despise, 
They are not fruits of Paradise ; 
But wild flowers in the pilgrim's way 
That cheer, yet not protract his stay. 
He must not these too fondly clasp, 
Lest they should vanish in his grasp, 
And yet may view and wisely love 
As proofs and types of joys above. 

From an old Manuscript Book. 



224 AUGUST. 



9liQU0t 1 8. 

ABSENCE. 

Ye shepherds so cheerful and gay, 
Whose flocks never carelessly roam, 
Should Corydon's happen to stray, 

call the poor wanderers home, 
Allow me to muse and to sigh, 

Nor talk of the change that ye find : 
None once was so watchful as I : 
— I have left my dear Phillis behind. 

Now I know what it is to have strove 
With the torture of doubt and desire ; 
What it is to admire and to love, 
And to leave her we love and admire. 
Ah ! lead forth my flock in the morn. 
And the damps of ea< h evening repel, 
Alas ! 1 am faint and forlorn : 
— I have bade my dear Phillis farewell. 

Since Phillis vouchsafed me a look, 

1 never once dreamt of my vine : 

May I lose both my pipe and my crook, 
If 1 knew of a kid that was mine ! 
I prized every hour that went by 
Beyond all that had pleased me before ; 
But now they are past, and I sigh, 
And I grieve that I prized them no more. 

The pilgrim that journeys all day 
To visit some far-distant shrine 
If he bear but a relic away, 
Is happy, nor heard to repine. 



A UGUST. 225 



Thus widely removed from the fair, 
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe, 
Soft hope is the relic I bear, 
And my solace, wherever I go. 

Shenstone. 



%WMt 19. 

ON THE DEATH OF A DOG. 

When some dear human friend to death doth bow, 

Fair blooming flowers are strewn upon the bier, 

And haply, in the silent house, we hear 

The last wild kiss ring on the marble brow 

And lips that never missed reply till now ; 

And thou, poor dog, wert in thy measure dear — 

And so I owe thee honour, and the tear 

Of friendship, and would all thy worth allow. 

In a false world, thy heart was brave and sound ; 

So, when my spade carved out thy latest lair, 

A spot to rest thee on, I sought and found — 

It was a tuft of primrose, fresh and fair, 

And, as it was thy last hour above ground, 

I laid thy sightless head full gently there. 

" I cannot think thine all is buried here," 
I said, and sigh'd — the wind awoke and blew 
The morning beam along the gossamer, 
That floated o'er thy grave all wet with dew ; 
A hint of better things, however slight, 
Will feed a loving hope ; it soothed my woe 
To watch that little shaft of heavenly light 
Pass o'er thee, moving softly to and fro : 

Q 



226 AUGUST. 



Within our Father's heart the secret lies 
Of this dim world ; why should we only live, 
And what was I that I should close my eyes 
On all those rich presumptions, that reprieve 
The meanest life from dust and ashes ? Lo ! 
I low much on such dark ground a gleaming thread 
can do ! 

C. Tennyson Turner. 



8uGti0t -o- 

FOR note, when evening shuts, 

A certain moment cuts 

The deed off, calls the glory- from the gray ; 

A whisper from the west 

Shoots — u Add this to the rest, 

Take it and try its worth ; here dies another day." 

For more is not reserved 

To man, with soul just nerved 

To act to-morrow what he learns to-day : 

. work enough to watch 
The Master work, and catch 
Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true 

play. 

As it was better, youth 
Should strive, thro' acts uncouth 
Toward making, than repose on aught found made! 
So, better, age exempt 
From strife, should know, than tempt 
Further. Thou waitedst age : wait death, nor be 
afraid ! 



A UGUST. 227 



Fool ! All that is at all, 
Lasts ever, past recall ; 

Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure . 
What entered into thee, 
That was, is, and shall be : 

Time's wheel runs back or stops : Potter and 
clay endure. 

R. Browning, Rabbi Ben Ezra. 



August 21. 

To hope where hope is vain, 

To fear, from danger free, 
To trust in shadows, then again 

To doubt reality. 
To nurse, each idle hour that flies, 

A thousand fickle fantasies : 
To dream awake ; to pine away, 

Yet bless the pangs that kill ; 
To die a thousand times a day, 

And yet be living still : 
Each struggling thought of self to smother 

In ceaseless musings on another ; 
From hope to hope with restless mind, 

From fear to fear to rove ; _ 
Such is the frenzy that mankind 

Decks with the name of Love ! 

Mrs. J. Anstice, from Metastasio. 



3liBti0t 22. 

Men call you fair, and you do credit it 
For that your self ye daily such do see — 




22 8 AUGUST. 



But the true fair, that is the gentle wit. 

And vertuous mind, is much more praised of me- 

For all the rest, however fair it be, 

Shall turn to nought and lose that glorious hue, 

But only that is permanent and free 

From frail corruption that doth flesh ensue, 

That is true beautie ; that doth argue you 

To be divine, and born of heavenly seed, 

Derived from that fair spirit, from whom all true 

And perfect beauty did at first proceed. 

He only fair, and what He fair hath made, 

All other fair, like flowers untimely fade — 

Spenser. 



aucuct 23. 

SUDDEN DEATH. 

DEATH was full urgent with thee, sister dear, 

And startling in his speed : — 
Brief pain, then languor till thy end came near — 
Such was the path decreed, 
The hurried road 
To lead thy soul from earth to thine own God's 
abode. 

Death wrought with thee, sweet maid, impatiently: — 

Yet merciful the haste 
That baffles sickness ; — dearest, thou didst die, 
Thou wast not made to taste 
Death's bitterness, 
Decline's slow- wasting charm, or fever's fierce dis- 
tress. 



AUGUST. 229 



Death came unheralded : — but it was well ; 

For so thy Saviour bore 
Kind witness, thou wast meet at once to dwell 
On His eternal shore ; 
All warning spared, 
For none He gives where hearts are for prompt 
change prepared. 

Death wrought in mystery ; both complaint and cure 

To human skill unknown : — 
God put aside all means, to make us sure 
It was His deed alone ; 
Lest we should lay 
Reproach on our poor selves, that thou wast caught 
away. 

Death urged as scant of time : — lest, sister dear, 

We many a lingering day 
Had sicken'd with alternate hope and fear, 

The ague of delay ; 

Watching each spark 
Of promise quench'd in turn, till all our sky was dark. 

Death came and went : — that so thy image might 

Our yearning hearts possess, 
Associate with all pleasant thoughts and bright, 

With youth and loveliness : 
Sorrow can claim, 
Mary, nor lot nor part in thy soft soothing name. 

Joy of sad hearts, and light of downcast eyes ! 

Dearest, thou art enshrined 
In all thy fragrance in our memories ; 
For we must ever find 
Bare thought of thee 
Freshen this weary life, while weary life shall be. 

J. H. Newman. 



230 AUGUST. 



9uGU0t 24. 

LORD, with what courage and delight 

I do each thing, 
When Thy least breath sustains my wing! 

I shine and move 

Like those above, 

And, with much gladness 

Quitting sadness, 
Make me fair days of ever)- night. 

Affliction thus mere pleasure is ; 

And hap what will, 
If Thou be in't, 'tis welcome still. 

But since Thy rays 

In sunny days 

Thou thus dost lend, 

And freely spend, 
All ! what shall I return for this? 

U that I were all soul ! that Thou 

Wouldst make each part 
Of this poor sinful frame pure heart ! 

Then would I drown 

My single one ; 

And to Thy praise 

A concert raise 
Of Alleluias here below. 

H. Vaughan, 1 5 50- 1 640 



AUGUST. 231 



3uCU0t 25. 

" It is our trust 
That there is yet another world to mend 
All error and mischance." 

" Another world ! 
And why this world, this common world, to be 
A make-shift, a mere foil, how fair soever, 
To some fine life to come ? Man must be fed 
With angel's food, forsooth,— and some few traces 
Of a diviner nature which look out 
Through his corporeal baseness, warrant him 
In a supreme contempt of all provision 
For his inferior tastes— some straggling marks 
Which constitute his essence, just as truly 
As here and there a gem would constitute 
The rock, their barren bed, one diamond. 
But were it so — were man all mind — he gains 
A station little enviable. From God 
Down to the lowest spirit ministrant, 
Intelligence exists which casts our mind 
Into immeasurable shade. No, no : 
Love, hope, fear, faith — these make humanity ; 
These are its sign and note and character. 

R. Browning, Paracelsus. 



%Wuzt 26. 

TO A SKYLARK. 

Ethereal minstrel ! Pilgrim of the sky ! 

Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound 
Or while the wings aspire, are heart and eye 

Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground ? 
Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, 
Those quivering wings composed that music still ! 



232 AUGUST. 



To the last point of vision, and beyond, 

Mount, daring warbler ! that love-prompted strain 

(Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond) 
Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain : 

Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege ! to sing 

All independent of the leafy spring. 

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood : 

A privacy of glorious Light is thine : 
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood 

Of harmony, with instinct more divine ; 
Type of the wise who soar, but never roam ; 
True to the kindred points of Heaven and home ! 

Wordsworth 



SUifluct -7- 
FRANCESCA DA RIMINI. 

"THE land that gave me birth 

Is situate on the coast, where Po descends 
To rest in ocean with his sequent streams. 

Love, that in gentle heart is quickly learnt, 
Entangled him by that fair form, from me 
Ta'en in such cruel sort, as grieves me still : 
Love that denial takes from none beloved, 
Caught me with pleasing him so passing well, 
That, as thou seest, he yet deserts me not. 
Love brought us to one death : Caina waits 
The soul, who spilt our life." Such were their 

words ; 
At hearing which, downward I bent my looks, 
And held them there so long, that the bard cried 
"What art thou pondering?" I in answer thus : 
" Alas ! by what sweet thoughts, what fond desire 
Must they at length to that ill pass have reach'd ?" 



A UGUST. 233 



Then turning, I to them my speech address'd, 
And thus began : " Francesca ! your sad fate 
Even to tears my grief and pity moves. 
But tell me ; in the time of your sweet sighs, 
By what, and how love granted, that ye knew 
Your yet uncertain wishes ?" She replied : 
" No greater grief than to remember days 
Of joy, when misery is at hand ! That kens 
Thy learn'd instructor. Yet so eagerly 
If thou art bent to know the primal root, 
From whence our love gat being, I will do 
As one, who weeps and tells his tale. One day, 
For our delight, we read of Lancelot, 
How him love thrall'd. Alone we were, and no 
Suspicion near us. Ofttimes by that reading 
Our eyes were drawn together, and the hue 
Fled from our alter'd cheek. But at one point 
Alone we fell. When of that smile we read, 
The wished smile, so rapturously kiss'd 
By one so deep in love, then he, who ne'er 
From me shall separate, at once my lips 
All trembling kiss'd. The book and writer both 
Were love's purveyors. In its leaves that day 
We read no more." While thus one spirit spake, 
The other wail'd so sorely, that, heart-struck, 
I, through compassion fainting, seem'd not far 
From death, and like a corse fell to the ground. 
Dante, Inferno, v., trans, H. F. Cary. 

3ufiU0t 28. 

THE PEACE OF GOD. 

Peace is God's direct assurance 
To the souls that win release 

From this world of hard endurance — 
Peace — He tells us — only Peace. 



234 



AUGUST. 



There is Peace in lifeless matter — 
There is Peace in dreamless sleep — 

Will then Death our being shatter 
In annihilation's deep? 

Ask you this ? O mortal trembler ! 

Hear the Peace that Death affords — 
For your God is no dissembler, 

Cheating you with double words :— 

To this life's inquiring traveller, 
Peace of knowledge of all good : 

To the anxious truth-unraveller, 
Peace of wisdom understood : — 

To the loyal wife, affection 

Towards her husband, free from fear, — 
To the faithful friend, selection 

Of all memories kind and dear : — 

To the lover, full fruition 

Of an unexhausted joy, — 
To the warrior, crowned ambition, 

With no envy's base alloy : — 

To the ruler, sense of action, 
Working out his great intent, — 

To the prophet, satisfaction 
In the mission he was sent : — 

To the poet, conscious glory 

Flowing from his Father's face :— 

Such is Peace in holy story, 

Such is Peace in heavenly grace. 

Lord Houghton. 



AUGUST. 235 



august 29. 

THE TWILIGHT OF LOVE. 

NOUGHT blinds you less than admiration, friend ! 
Whether it be that all love renders wise 
In its degree, from love which blends with love, 
Heart answering heart, — to love which spends itself 
In silent mad idolatry of some 
Pre-eminent mortal, some great soul of souls, 
Which ne'er will know how well it is adored. 
I say, such love is never blind ; but rather 
Alive to every the minutest spot 
Which mars its object, and which hate (supposed 
So vigilant and searching) dreams not of ; 
Love broods on such : what then ? When first per- 
ceived 
Is there no sweet strife to forget, to change, 
To overflush those blemishes with all 
The glow of general goodness they disturb ? 
To make those very defects an endless source 
Of new affection grown from hopes and fears ? 
And, when all fails, is there no gallant stand 
Made even for that proved weak ? no shrinking back 
Lest, since all love assimilates the soul 
To what it loves, it should at length become 
Almost a rival of its idol ? Trust me, 
If there be friends who seek to work our hurt. 
To ruin and drag down earth's mightiest spirits 
Even at God's foot, 'twill be from such as love, 
Their zeal will gather most to serve their cause ; 
And least from those who hate, who most essay 
By contumely and scorn to blot the light 
Which forces entrance even to their hearts ; 
For thence will our defender tear the veil 
And show within each heart, as in a shrine, 



236 AUGUST. 



The giant image of perfection, grown 

In hate's despite, whose calumnies were spurned 

In the untroubled presence of its eyes. 

True admiration blinds not. 

R. B ROW N inc., / 'aracelsus. 



aufliujt 30. 

1. in . 



Ti 11. me in what state of life 



Man may ever happy be? 
In the mart is wrangling strife, 

In his home anxiety. 
I [owsoe'er his course be planned, 

Still vexation shall he reap, 
Toils fatigue him on the land, 

1 1 1 rors wait him on the deep. 
Wilt thou rove? if wealth be thine, 

Thou tnayst be the robber's pre)- ; 
If without it, thou mayst pine, 

( Iheerless, on thy lonely waj . 
If by wedded love attended, 

Thou shalt have increase of care ; 
Art thou single? unbefriended 

Thou must sink beneath despair. 
Woe from children shalt thou gain, 

Yet without them must thou mourn ; 
Youth is Folly's idle reign, 

Age is feeble and forlorn. 
This the best that can befall, 

Either not to be at all, 
Or from life received to fly, 

And as soon as born to die. 

J. Anstice,/>w« the Greek. 



A UGUST. 237 



8ti8U0t 31. 

LIFE. 
II. 

"Audi alteram partem." 

Man may find life's pathway brightened, 

If he will, where'er he roam ; 
In the mart his mind's enlightened, 

Rest refreshes him at home. 
Howsoe'er his course be planned, 

He shall still enjoyment reap ; 
Nature smiles upon the land, 

Gain is gathered from the deep. 
Wilt thou rove ? if wealth be thine, 

All will thy behest obey : 
Art thou poor ? none need divine 

The secret, if thou still art gay. 
If by wedded love attended, 

Comfort smiles around thy hearth ; 
If without, till life is ended, 

Thine is liberty and mirth. 
Joy from children mayst thou gain ; 

Childless, thou from care art free ; 
Youth is Vigour's healthful reign, 

Age is fraught with piety. 
; Tis not the best that can befall, 

Either not to be at all, 
Or from life received to fly, 

For life is all felicity. 

J. ANSTlCE,/nw/ the Greek. 



238 



SEPTEMBER. 



September i. 

THE STREAM. 

O STREAM, descending to the sea, 

Thy mossy banks between, 
The now'rets blow, the grasses grow, 

The leafy trees are green. 

In garden plots the children play, 

The fields the labourers till, 
And houses stand on either hand, 

And thou descendest still. 

O life, descending into death, 

Our waking eyes behold, 
Parent and friend thy lapse attend, 

Companions young and old. 

Strong purposes our mind possess, 

Our hearts affections fill, 
We toil and earn, we seek and learn, 

And thou descendest still. 

O end, to which our currents tend, 

Inevitable sea, 
To which we flow, what do we know, 

What shall we guess of thee ? 

A roar we hear upon thy shore, 

As we our course fulfil ; 
Scarce we divine a sun will shine, 

And be above us still. 

A. H. Clough. 



SEPTEMBER. 239 



September 2. 

O Earth, 
I count the praises thou art worth, 
By thy waves that move aloud, 
By thy hills against the cloud, 
By thy valleys warm and green, 
By the copse's elms between, 
By their birds which, like a sprite, 
Scattered by a strong delight 
Into fragments musical, 
Stir and sing in every bush ; 
By thy silver founts that fall, 
As if to entice the stars at night 
To thine heart ; by grass and rush, 
And little weeds the children pull, 
Mistook for flowers ! 

O beautiful 
Art thou, Earth, albeit worse 
Than in Heaven is called good ; 
Good to us, that we may know 
Meekly from thy good to go ; 
While the holy, crying Blood 
Puts its music kind and low 
'Twixt such ears as are not dull, 

And thine ancient curse ! 
Praised be the mosses soft 
In thy forest pathways oft, 
And the thorns, which make us think 
Of the thornless river-brink 

Where the ransomed tread : 
Praised be thy sunny gleams, 
And the storm, that worketh dreams 

Of calm unfinished : 
Praised be thine active days, 
And thy night-time's solemn need, 



240 SEPTEMBER. 



When in God*s dear book we read 

Praised be thy dwellings warm 

By household faggot's cheerful blaze, 

Where, to hear of pardoned sin, 

Pauseth oft the merry din, 

Save the babe's upon the arm 

Who croweth to the crackling wood : 

Yea, and better understood, 

I be thy dwellings cold, 
Hid beneath the churchyard mould, 
Where the bodies of the saints, 
Separate from earthly taints, 
Lie asleep, in blessing bound, 
Waiting for the trumpet's sound 
To free them into blessing ; none 
Weeping more beneath the sun, 
Though dangerous words of human love 
. near, above. 

Earth, we Christians praise thee thus, 

. for the change that comes 
With a grief from thee to us, 
For thy cradles and thy tombs, 
For the pleasant corn and wine 
And summer-heat, and al- 
The frost upon the sycamore 

And hail upon the vine ! 

E. Barrett Drowning. 



€"fptfmbfr 3. 

Ye were mine, flesh and souL mine, O my children, 
A portion of myself is torn away, 
The breath of life seems stifled in our parting, 
And death like darkness clouds my lonely day. 



SEPTEMBER. 241 



A chill sick shudder thrills my yearning bosom, 

Where never more your gentle arms shall twine. 

The memory of your voices doubles anguish ; 

Your voices that no longer answer mine ! 

Yet cease, my soul ! O hush this vain lamenting, 

Earth's anguish will not alter Heaven's decree ; 

In that calm world whose peopling is of angels, 

Those I called mine still live and wait for me. 

They cannot redescend where I lament them ; 

My earthbound grief no sorrowing angel shares : 

And in their peaceful and immortal dwelling 

Nothing of me can enter — but my prayers ! 

If this be so — then, that I may be near them, 

Let me still pray unmurmuring, night and day. 

God lifts us gently to His world of glory, 

Even by the love we feel for things of clay. 

Lest in our wayward hearts we should forget Him, 

And forfeit so the mansion of our rest, 

He leads our dear ones forth, and bids us seek them 

In a far distant home, among the blest. 

So we have guides to Heaven's eternal city, 

And when our wandering feet would backward stray, 

The faces of our Dead arise in brightness, 

And fondly beckon to the holier way. 



September 4. 

THE STARS. 

FOR a thousand years the stars 
Stay quiet in the skies, 

And ever at each other gaze 
With wistful loving eyes. 
R 



242 SEPTEMBER. 



The words they speak together 

Are beautiful and grand, 
Yet not the wisest scholar 

Their speech may understand. 

But I have read and learnt it, 

And know it evermore : — 
The face of my beloved 

Revealed to me their lore. 

Trans, from Heine. 



September 5. 

I KNOW not which to choose ; whether to live 

A little longer here, or to depart. 

That would be sweet, to be at rest, to toil 

No more ; no more feel pain, to have no griefs, 

No anxious fears, nor for myself nor others, — 

That would be sweet ; and sweeter still to have 

No more to sin, affection or desire. 

But to be near, and feel that nearness near 

Unto my Lord ; to have a thrilling sense 

Of blessedness, the eternity of joy 

At hand yet greater, safe, for ever safe. 

So to be resting would be sweet. And yet 
To live for Christ, to live to do His pleasure : 
To fight the fight, clad in His panoply, 
Knowing that He looks on the while, and smiles 
By love unfathomable ever moved. 
To go and tell to others of His grace, 
The bliss unutterable of the life 
That is in Him ! 

Surely a life so spent is blessedness, 
And all too little to repay His Love, 
The Love of His most costly sacrifice. 



SEPTEMBER. 243 



Which shall I choose ? — living, to live to Christ, 
Or dying, die to Him, — which shall I choose ? 
Whichever of the twain shall to Thy glory be, 
That Lord, I pray Thou wilt appoint for me ! 

H. SWINNEY. 



September 6. 

Within the Cretan cavern's shade 
The infant heir of heaven was laid ; 

No god the secret knew : 
There waxed in strength each boyish limb ; 
From ocean's streams, the doves for Him 

With sweet ambrosia flew. 
The mighty eagle nectar quaffed 
From some tall cliff, and bore the draught, 

His vigour to renew. 
When Saturn fell, on that proud bird 
Jove immortality conferred, 

And to the skies translated : 
The doves, tho' still confined below, 

His heralds He created ; 
And bade them by their wanderings show 

Wlience seasons should be dated. 

J. Anstice, from the Greek of Myro. 



September 7. 

Welcome joy, and welcome sorrow, 

Lethe's weed and Hermes' feather ; 

Come to-day, and come to-morrow, 

I do love you both together ! 

I love to mark sad faces in fair weather, 

And hear a merry laugh amid the thunder 



244 SEPTEMBER. 



Fair and foul I love together, 
Meadows sweet where flames are under, 
And a giggle at a wonder ; 
Visage sage at pantomime ; 
Funeral, and steeple chime ; 
Infant playing with a skull ; 
Morning fair and shipwrecked hull ; 
Nightshade with the woodbine kissing ; 
Serpents in red roses hissing ; 
Cleopatra regal dressed 
With the aspic at her breast ; 
Dancing music, music sad, 
Both together, sane and mad ; 
Muses bright, and muses pale ; 
Sombre Saturn, Momus hale ; 
Laugh and sigh, and laugh again ; 
Oh ! the sweetness of the pain ! 
Muses bright and muses pale, 
Bare your faces of the veil ; 
Let me see, and let me write 
Of the clay and of the night — 
Both together ; — let me slake 
All my thirst for sweet heart-ache ! 
Let my bower be of yew, 
Interwreath'd with myrtles new, 
Pines and lime-trees full in bloom, 
And my couch a low grass-tomb. 

Keats. 



September 8. 

To me, fair friend, you never can be old, 
For as you were when first your eye I ey'd, 
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters' cold 
Have from the forest shook three summers' pride ; 
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd 



SEPTEMBER. 245 



In process of the seasons have I seen ; 

Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd, 

Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green. 

Ah ! yet doth beauty, like a dial hand, 

Steal from his figure, and no pace perceiv'd ; 

So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, 

Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceiv'd ; 

For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred, 
Ere you were born, was beauty's summer dead. 

Shakespeare, So?i7iet CIV. 



September 9- 

The world's a sea ; my flesh a ship that's mann'd 
With lab'ring thoughts, and steer'd by reason's hand 
My heart's the seaman's card, whereby she sails : 
My loose affections are the greater sails ; 
The topsail is my fancy, and the gusts 
That fill these wanton sails, are worldly lusts. 
Pray'r is the cable at whose end appears 
The anchor Hope, ne'er slipp'd but in our fears : 
My will's the inconstant pilot, that commands 
The staggering keel ; my sins are like the sands : 
Repentance is the bucket, and mine eye, 
The pump unused (but in extremes) and dry : 
My conscience is the plummet that does press 
The deeps, but seldom cries, O fathomless : 
Smooth calm's security ; the gulph, despair ; 
My freight's corruption, and this life's my fare : 
My soul's the passenger, confusedly driv'n 
From fear to fright ; her landing port is Heav'n. 
My seas are stormy, and my ship doth leak ; 
My sailors rude, my steersman faint and weak : 
My canvas torn, it flaps from side to side : 
My cable's cracked, my anchor's slightly tied, 



246 SEPTEMBER. 



My pilot's crazed, my shipwreck sands are cloaked, 
My bucket's broken, and my pump is choked : 
My calm's deceitful, and my gulph too near, 
My wares are slubbered, and my fare too dear : 
My plummet's light, it cannot sink nor sound ; 
O shall my rock-bethreatened soul be drowned ? 
Lord, still the seas, and shield my ship from harm ; 
Instruct my sailors, guide my steersman's arm : 
Touch Thou my compass, and renew my sails, 
Send stiffer courage, or send milder gales ; 
Make strong my cable, bind my anchor faster, 
Direct my pilot, and be Thou his master : 
Object the sands to my most serious view, 
Make sound my bucket, bore my pump anew : 
New cast my plummet, make it apt to try 
Where the rocks lurk, and where the quicksands lie; 
Guard Thou the gulph with love, my calms with care ; 
Cleanse Thou my freight ; accept my slender fare ; 
Refresh the sea-sick passenger ; cut short 
His voyage ; land him in his wish'd-for port : 
Thou, Thou whom winds and stormy seas obey, 
That thro' the deep gav'st grumbling Israel way, 
Say to my soul, Be safe ; and then mine eye 
Shall scorn grim death, altho' grim death stand by. 
O Thou whose strength-reviving arm did cherish 
The sinking Peter, at the point to perish, 
Reach forth Thy hand, or bid me tread the wave, 
I'll come ! I'll come ! The voice that calls will save ! 



Francis Quarles, 1635, 



SEPTEMBER. 247 



September 10. 

NIGHT. 
" not? dolce tempo:'' 

night, O sweet though sombre span of time ! 
All things find rest upon their journey's end — 
Whoso hath praised thee, well doth apprehend ; 
And whoso honours thee, hath wisdom's prime. 

Our cares thou canst to quietude sublime ; 

For dews and darkness are of peace the friend : 
Often by thee in dreams upborne I wend 
From earth to Heaven, where yet I hope to climb. 

Thou shade of Death, thro' whom the soul at length 
Shuns pain and sadness hostile to the heart, 
Whom mourners find their last and sure relief ! 

Thou dost restore our suffering flesh to strength, 
Driest our tears, assuagest every smart, 
Purging the spirits of the pure from grief. 

Michael Angelo (J. A. Symonds). 



September 11. 

PROSPICE. 

Fear death ? to feel the fog in my throat, 

The mist in my face, 
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote 

I am nearing the place, 
The power of the night, the press of the storm, 

The post of the foe ; 
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, 

Yet the strong man must go : 



2 4 S SEPTEMBER. 



For the journey is done and the summit attained, 

And the barriers fall. 
Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, 

The reward of it all. 
I was ever a fighter, so — one fight more, 

The best and the last ! 
I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and 
forbore, 

And bade me creep past. 
No ! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers, 

The heroes of old, 
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears 

Of pain, darkness and cold. 
For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, 

The black minute's at end. 
And the elements rage, the fiend voices that rave, 

Shall dwindle, shall blend, 
Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, 

Then a light, then thy breast, 
O thou soul of my soul ! I shall clasp thee again, 

And with God be the rest ! 

R. Browning. 



September 12. 

THE INCHCAPE ROCK. 

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, 
The ship was as still as she could be, 
Her sails from heaven received no motion, 
Her keel was steady in the ocean. 

Without either sign or sound of their shock, 
The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock ; 
So little they rose, so little they fell, 
They did not move the Inchcape Bell. 



SEPTEMBER. 249 



The Abbot of Aberbrothok 
Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock : 
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, 
And over the waves its warning rung. 

When the Rock was hid by the surge's swell, 
The mariners heard the warning bell ; 
And then they knew the perilous Rock, 
And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok. 

The sun in heaven was shining gay, 

All things were joyful on that day : 

The sea-birds screamed as they wheel'd around 

And there was joyaunce in their sound. 

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen 
A darker speck on the ocean green ; 
Sir Ralph the Rover walk'd his deck, 
And he fixed his eye on the darker speck. 

He felt the cheering power of spring, 
It made him whistle, it made him sing, 
His heart was mirthful to excess, 
But the Rover's mirth was wickedness. 

His eye was on the Inchcape float ; 
Quoth he, " My men, put out the boat, 
And row me to the Inchcape Rock, 
And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok." 

The boat is lowered, the boatmen row, 

And to the Inchcape Rock they go ; 

Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, 

And he cut the Bell from the Inchcape float. 

Down sunk the Bell with a gurgling sound, 
The bubbles rose and burst around : 



250 SEPTEMBER. 



Quoth Sir Ralph, " The next who comes to 

the Rock 
Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok ! ■ 

Sir Ralph the Rover sail'd away, 
He scoured the seas for many a day ; 
And now grown rich with plunder'd store, 
He steers his course for Scotland's shore. 

So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky 
They cannot see the sun on high ; 
The wind hath blown a gale all day, 
At evening it hath died away. 

On the deck the Rover takes his stand, 
So dark it is they see no land ; 
Quoth Sir Ralph, " It will be lighter soon, 
For there is the dawn of the rising moon." 

"Canst hear," said one, ''the breakers roar? 

For methinks we should be near the shore." 
u Now where we are I cannot tell, 

But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell ! " 

They hear no sound, the swell is strong ; 
Though the wind hath fallen they drift along, 
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock, — 
"O Christ ! it is the Inchcape Rock ! ■ 

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair, 
He curst himself in his despair ; 
The waves rush in on every side, 
The ship is sinking beneath the tide. 

But even in his dying fear, 
One dreadful sound could the Rover hear, 
A sound as if with the Inchcape Bell, 
The Devil below was ringing his knell. 

Southey. 



SEPTEMBER. 251 



September 13. 

YOUTH AND TRUTH, 

Now in life's breezy morning, 

Here on life's sunny shore, 
To all the powers of falsehood 

We vow eternal war : 

Eternal hate to falsehood ; 

And then, as needs must be, 
O Truth, O Lady peerless, 

Eternal love to thee. 

All fair things that seem true things, 
Our hearts shall aye receive, 

Not over-quick to seize them, 
Not over-loth to leave : 

Not over-loth or hasty 

To leave them or to seize, 
Not eager still to wander, 

Nor clinging still to ease. 

But one vow links us ever, 

That whatsoe'er shall be, 
Nor life nor death shall sever 

Our souls, O Truth, from thee. 

Ernest Myers. 



September 14. 

O DULL, dull heart ! 
Sunk in the passiveness of dead repose 
Uprouse thee from thy fancied weight of woes, 
And bear a nobler part. 



252 SEPTEMBER. 



Joys thou hast known, 
Joys that now seem to thee but memories, 
Spurned in regret, as idle fantasies, 
Make them once more thine own. 

Whence livest thou ? 
Is not thy life the child of these old joys ? 
Then nothing them if not thy life destroys ; 
Surely thou hast them now. 

Is it despair ? 

Oh then, the hope begotten of a love 
Thro' darkest suffering sanctified, may prove 
A very gift of prayer. 

Or art thou faint ? 

Oh then rejoice, that weariness is thine, 
Thou hast a blessing from those pangs divine, 
That purified thy saint. 

Think on her still ! 

If e'er a conscience darken'd by defeat 
Welcomes false fancies, owns temptation sweet, 
And nurses dreams of ill,— 

Then cast thy thought 
On that fond eager longing after good, 
That keen soul-struggle, where the fierce "I would," 
Cherished the pure "I ought," 

Then grasp the hand 

Of Love, well proved by sharp experience, 
Love, arme'd with the power of Innocence, 
Love, that may bear thee thro' the storms of sense, 
And take thee to Heaven's strand. 

C. A. S. 



SEPTEMBER. 253 



September 15. 

SILENCE. 

There is a silence where hath been no sound, 
There is a silence where no sound may be, 
In the cold grave — under the deep, deep sea, 
Or in wide desert where no life is found, 
Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound; 
No voice is hushed — no life treads silently, 
But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free, 
That never spoke, over the idle ground : 
But in green ruins, in the desolate walls 
Of antique palaces, where man hath been, 
Though the dun fox, or wild hyena calls, 
And owls, that flit continually between, 
Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan, 
There the true silence is, self-conscious and alone. 

T. Hood. 

September 16. 

the river wye. 

. . . These beauteous forms 
Thro' a long absence, have not been to me 
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye : 
But oft, in lonely rooms, and mid the din 
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, 
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, 
Felt in the blood and felt along the heart ; 
And passing even into my purer mind, 
With tranquil restoration : — feelings too 
Of unremembered pleasure : such, perhaps, 
As have no slight or trivial influence 
On that best portion of a good man's life, 



254 SEPTEMBER, 



His little, nameless, unremembered acts 

Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, 

To them I may have owed another gift, 

Of aspect more sublime ; that blessed mood, 

In which the burthen of the mystery, 

In which the heavy and the weary weight 

Of all this unintelligible world, 

Is lightened -.—that serene and blessed mood, 

In which the affections gently lead us on, — 

Until, the breath of this corporeal frame 

And even the motion of our human blood 

Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 

In body, and become a living soul : 

While with an eye made quiet by the power 

Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, 

We see into the life of things. 

If this 
Be but a vain belief : yet oh ! how oft 
In darkness, and amid the many shapes 
Of joyless daylight ; when the fretful stir 
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, 
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart, 
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, 
O sylvan Wye ! WORDSWORTH. 

September 17. 

THE BUTTERFLY AND THE ROSE. 

She pluck'd a wild wood-rose, and fondly strove, 
With pausing step and ever anxious care, 
To carry home her dainty treasure-trove. 
A butterfly perclrd on those petals fair. 
Soon the gay creature flutter'd off again ; 
And then her girlish fingers dropped the flower. 
Ah ! little maid, when Love asserts his power, 
This lesson duly learnt may save thee pain ; 



SEPTEMBER. 255 



Why from the forest rose thine hand unclasp, 
Because the fickle insect would not stay ? 
Not all the tendance of thy sweet blue eye, 
And tiptoe heed, secured the butterfly ; 
The flower, that needed but thy gentle grasp 
To hold it, thou hast lightly thrown away ! 

C. Tennyson Turner. 



September 18. 

The clouds are flitting, 

The oakwoods roar, 
And the maiden is sitting 

On Ocean's shore ; 
And the waves of the billowy sea 
Are dashing mightily, mightily : 
On the murky night floats out her sigh, 
And tears are in her troubled eye. 

My heart's life has perished, 

The world is a void, 
With nought to be cherished, 

Or wished, or enjoyed. 
Then, Holy Mother ! hear and call 

Thy child to her home above ; 
The cup of bliss, I have drained it all — 

I have lived, and have lived to love." 

The tears thou art weeping 

Stream, maiden, in vain. 
Tears woo not the sleeping 

To earth back again. 
But say, what can heal the broken-hearted, 
When the soft delight of love is parted ? 
Say, and if such a balm there be, 
I will send that balm from above for thee." 



256 SEPTEMBER. 



" Let the tears I am weeping 
Stream on, tho' in vain ; 
True, they woo not the sleeping 

To earth back again. 
But the sweetest balm for the broken-hearted 

In their dreary waste of years, 
When the soft delights of love are parted, 
Is love's lament and tears." 

J. Anstice, trans, from Schiller. 

September 19. 

QUI LABORAT, ORAT. 

O ONLY Source of all our light and life, 

Whom as our truth, our strength, we see and feel, 

But whom the hours of mortal moral strife 
Alone aright reveal ! 

Mine inmost soul, before Thee inly brought, 
Thy presence owns, ineffable divine ; 

Chastised each rebel self-encentered thought, 
My will adoreth Thine. 

With eye down-dropt, if then this earthly mind 
Speechless remain, or speechless e'en depart ; 

Nor seek to see— for what of earthly kind 
Can see Thee as Thou art ? — 

If well assured 'tis but profanely bold 

In thought's abstractest forms to seem to see, 

It dare not dare the dread communion hold 
In ways unworthy Thee. 

O not unowned, Thou shalt unnamed forgive, 
In worldly walks the prayerless heart prepare ; 

And if in work its life it seem to live, 
Shalt make that work be prayer. 



SEPTEMBER. 257 



Nor times shall lack, when, while the work it plies, 
Unsummone'd powers the blinding film shall part, 

And scarce by happy tears made dim, the eyes 
In recognition start. 

But, as Thou wiliest, give or e'en forbear 

The beatific supersensual sight, 
So, with Thy blessing blest, that humbler prayer 

Approach Thee morn and night. 

A. H. C LOUGH. 



September 20. 

TO MARGUERITE. 

Yes ! in the sea of life en-isled, 

With echoing straits between us thrown, 
Dotting the shoreless watery wild, 

We mortal millions live alo?ie. 
The islands feel the enclasping flow, 
And then their endless bounds they know. 

But when the moon their hollows lights, — 
And they are swept by balms of spring, 

And in their glens, on starry nights, 
The nightingales divinely sing ; — 

And lovely notes, from shore to shore, 

Across the sounds and channels pour ; — 

O ! then a longing like despair 
Is to their furthest caverns sent, 

For surely once, they feel, we were 
Part of a single continent ! 

Now round us spreads the watery plain — 

O might our marges meet again ! 
s 



!58 SEPTEMBER. 

Who order'd, that their longings fire 
Should be, as soon as kindled, cool'd ? 

Who renders vain their deep desire? — 
A God, a God their severance ruled! 

And bade betwixt their shores to be 

The unplumb'd, salt, estranging sea. 

Matthew Arnold. 



September 21. 

THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 

Somewhat back from the village street 
Stands the old-fashioned country seat, 
Across its antique portico 
Tall poplar trees their shadows throw ; 
And from its station in the hall 
An ancient timepiece says to all, — 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever !" 

Half-way up the stairs it stands, 
And points and beckons with its hands 
From its case of massive oak, 
Like a monk, who, under his cloak, 
Crosses himself, and sighs alas ! 
With sorrowful voice to all who pass, 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! " 

By day its voice is low and light ; 
But in the silent dead of night, 
Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, 
It echoes along the vacant hall, 



SEPTEMBER. 259 



Along the ceiling, along the floor, 
And seems to say, at each chamber door, 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever !" 

Through days of sorrow and days of mirth, 
Through days of death and days of birth, 
Through every swift vicissitude 
Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, 
And as if, like God, it all things saw, 
It calmly repeats these words of awe,— 
" Forever — never ! 
Never— forever 1" 

There groups of merry children played, 
There youths and maidens dreaming strayed ; 
O precious hours ! O golden prime ! 
And affluence of love and time ! 
Even as a miser counts his gold, 
Those hours the ancient timepiece told,— 
" Forever — never ! 
Never— forever 1 " 

From that chamber, clothed in white, 
The bride came forth on her wedding night ; 
There, in that silent room below, 
The dead lay in his shroud of snow ; 
And in the hush that followed the prayer, 
Was heard the old clock on the stair,— 
" Forever — never ! 
Never— forever !" 

All are scattered now and fled, 
Some are married, some are dead ; 
And when I ask with throbs of pain, 
"Ah ! when shall they all meet again ?" 



2 6o SEPTEMBER. 



As in the days long since gone by, 
The ancient timepiece makes reply, — 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! " 

Never here, forever there, 
Where all parting, pain, and care, 
And death, and time shall disappear, — 
Forever there, but never here ! 
The horologe of Eternity 
Sayeth this incessantly, — 

" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever !" 

Longfellow. 

September 22. 

TllOU art the source and centre of all minds, 
Their only point of rest, Eternal Word ! 
From Thee departing they are lost, and rove 
At random without honour, hope, or peace. 
From Thee is all that soothes the life of man, 
His high endeavour, and his glad success, 
His strength to suffer, and his will to serve. 
But O Thou bounteous giver of all good, 
Thou art of all Thy gifts Thyself the crown ! 
Give what Thou canst, without Thee we are poor 
And with Thee rich, take what Thou wilt away. 

Cowper, The Task. 



September 23. 

Peace be around thee ! wherever thou rovest, 
May life be for thee one summer's day, 

And all that thou wishest, and all that thou lovest, 
Come smiling around thy sunny way ! 






SEPTEMBER. 261 



If sorrow e'er this calm should break, 
May even thy tears pass off so lightly, 

That like spring showers, they'll only make 
The smiles that follow shine more brightly ! 

May Time, who sheds his blight o'er all, 

And daily dooms some joy to death, 
O'er thee let years so gently fall, 

They shall not crush one flower beneath ! 
As half in shade and half in sun, 

This world along its path advances, 
May that side the sun's upon 

Be all that e'er shall meet thy glances ! 

T. Moore. 



September 24. 



Angels thy old friends there shall greet thee, 
Glad at their own home now to meet thee. 
All thy good works which went before, 
And waited for thee at the door, 
Shall own thee there : and all in one 
Weave a constellation 

Of crowns, with which the King, thy spouse, 
Shall build up thy triumphant brows 

All thy old woes shall now smile on thee, 
And thy pains set bright upon thee : 
All thy sorrows here shall shine, 
And thy suff'rings be divine. 



262 SEPTEMBER. 



Tears shall take comfort and turn gems, 

And wrongs repent to diadems. 

Ev'n thy deaths shall live, and new 

Dress the soul, which late they slew. 

Thy wounds shall blush to such bright scars, 

As keep account of the Lambs wars. 

Those rare works, where thou shalt leave writ 

Love's noble history, with wit 

Taught thee by none but Him, while here 

They feed our souls, shall clothe them there. 

Each heavenly word, by whose hid flame 

Our hard hearts shall strike fire, the same 

Shall flourish on thy brows, and be 

Both fire to us, and flame to thee : 

Whose light shall live bright, in thy face 

By glory, in our hearts by grace. 

Thou shalt look round about, and see 
Thousands of crown'd souls throng to be 
Themselves thy crown, sons of thy vows : 
The virgin births with which thy spouse 
Made fruitful thy fair soul ; go now, 
And with them all about thee, bow 
To Him, "Put on," He'll say, "put on, 
My rosy love, that thy rich zone, 
Sparkling with the sacred flames 
Of thousand souls whose happy names 
Heaven keeps upon thy score ; thy bright 
Life brought them first to kiss the light 
That kindled them to stars." And so 
Thou with the Lamb thy Lord shalt go, 
And wheresoe'er He sets His white 
Steps, walk with Him those ways of light, 
Which who in death would live to see, 
Must learn in life to die like thee. 

Richard Crashaw to S. Teresa. 



SEPTEMBER. 263 



September 25, 

PENITENTIAL SHADOW. 

A SPOTLESS child sleeps on the flowering moss — 

Tis well for him ; but when a sinful man, 

Envying such slumber, may desire to put 

His guilt away, shall he return at once 

To rest by lying there ? Our sires knew well 

(Spite of the grave discoveries of their sons) 

The fitting course for such ; dark cells, dim lamps, 

A stone floor one may writhe on like a worm : 

No mossy pillow blue with violets ! 

R. Browning, Paracelsus. 



September 26. 

REST. 

O Earth, lie heavily upon her eyes : 
Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Earth ; 
Lie close around her ; leave no room for mirth, 
With its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs. 
She hath no questions, she hath no replies, 
Hushed in and curtained with a blessed dearth 
Of all that irked her from the hour of birth ; 
With stillness that is almost Paradise. 
Darkness more clear than noonday holdeth her, 

Silence more musical than any song ; 
Even her very heart has ceased to stir : 
Until the morning of Eternity 
Her rest shall not begin nor end, but be ; 

And when she wakes she will not think it long. 
Christina Rossetti. 



264 SEPTEMBER. 



September 27. 

CHARMS AND KNOTS. 

Who reade a chapter when they rise, 
Shall ne'er be troubled with ill eyes. 

Who shuts his hand, hath lost his gold : 
Who opens it, hath it twice told. 

Who goes to bed, and doth not pray, 
Maketh two nights to ev'ry day. 

Who by aspersions throw a stone 
At th' head of others, hit their own. 

Who looks on ground with humble eyes, 
1 seeks to rise. 
George Herbert. 



September 28. 

THAT DAY. 

I STAND by the river where both of us stood, 
And there is but one shadow to darken the flood ; 
And the path leading to it, where both used to pass, 
Has the step but of one, to take dew from the grass, 
One forlorn since that day. 

The flowers of the margin are many to see ; 
None stoops at my bidding to pluck them for me. 
The bird in the alder sings, loudly and long — 
My low sound of weeping disturbs not his song, 
As thy vow did, that day. 



\ 



SEPTEMBER. 265 



I stand by the river, I think of the vow ; 
Oh, calm as the place is, vow breaker, be thou ! 
I leave the flower growing, the bird unreproved ; 
Would I trouble ///^rather than them, my beloved, — 
And my lover that day ? 

Go, be sure of my love, by that treason forgiven, 
Of my prayers, by the blessings they win thee from 

Heaven ; 
Of my grief (guess the length of the sword by the 

sheath's), 
By the silence of life, more pathetic than death's ! 
Go — be clear of that day. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



September 29. 

S. MICHAEL AND ALL ANGELS. 

On to the sacred hill 
They led him, high applauded, and present 
Before the seat supreme ; from whence a voice, 
From midst a golden cloud, thus mild was heard : — 
"Servant of God, well done ! Well hast thou fought 
The better fight, who single hast maintained 
Against revolted multitudes the cause 
Of truth, in word mightier than they in arms, 
And for the testimony of truth hast borne 
Universal reproach, far worse to bear 
Than violence ; for this was all thy care — 
To stand approv'd in sight of God, though worlds 
Judged thee perverse. . . , 



266 SEPTEMBER. 



Go, Michael, of celestial armies prince, 

And thou, in military prowess next, 

Gabriel ; lead forth to battle these my sons 

Invincible ; lead forth my armed Saints, 

By thousands and by millions ranged for fight, 

Equal in number to that godless crew 

Rebellious. Them with fire and hostile arms 

Fearless assault ; and, to the brow of Heaven 

Pursuing, drive them out from God and bliss 

Into their place of punishment, . . ." 

So spake the Sovran Voice ; and clouds began 

To darken all the hill, and smoke to roll 

In dusky wreaths, reluctant flames, the sign 

Of wrath awaked ; nor with less dread the loud 

Ethereal trumpet from on high gan blow. 

At which command the Powers Militant, 

That stood for Heaven, in mighty quadrate join'd 

Of union irresistible, moved on 

In silence their bright legions to the sound 

Of instrumental harmony, that breathed 

Heroic ardour to adventurous deeds 

Under their godlike leaders, in the cause 

Of God and His Messiah. On they move, 

Indissolubly firm ; nor obvious hill, 

Nor straitening vale, nor wood, nor stream, divides 

Their perfect ranks ; for high above the ground 

Their march was, and the passive air upbore 

Their nimble tread. . . . 

. . . Strange to us it seemed 
At first that Angel should with Angel war, 
And in fierce hosting meet, who wont to meet 
So oft in festivals of joy and love 
Unanimous, as sons of one great Sire, 
Hymning the Eternal Father. 

Milton, Paradise Lost, Bk. vi. 



SEPTEMBER. 267 



September 30. 

THE SWALLOWS OF CITEAUX. 

Under eaves, against the towers, 
All the spring, their muddy bowers 

Swallows build about Citeaux. 
Round the chapter-house and hall, 
From the dawn to evenfall, 

They are fluttering to and fro 

On their never-flagging wing ; 
With the psalms the brethren sing 

Blends their loud incessant cry ; 
In and out the plastered nest 
Never taking thought of rest, 

Chattering these swallows fly. 

They distract the monk who reads, 
Him as well who tells his beads, 

Him who writes his chronicle ; 
In the cloister old and gray 
They are jubilant and gay, 

In the very church as well. 

On the dormitory beds, 

In refectory o'er the heads — 

At the windows rich with paint, 
Ever dashing — in and out 
With the maddest, noisiest rout 

As would surely vex a saint. 

To the Abbot then complain 

Pious monks : — " Shall these remain 

To disturb us at our prayers ? 
Bid us nests and eggs destroy, 
Then the birds will not annoy 

Any more our deafened ears." 



268 SEPTEMBER. 



Quoth the Abbot smiling — " Say, 
Have not we too homes of clay, 

Quite as fragile, not more fair ? 
r>rothers, and shall we resolve 
Their tabernacles to dissolve, 

Asking God our own to spare?" 

Not another word of blame, 
But they turned away in shame. 

So the little birds had peace, 
And the parapets among 
Built and laid, and hatched their young, 

Making wonderful increase. 

When declined the autumn sun, 
When the yellow harvest done, 

Sat the swallows in a row 
( >n the ridging of the roof, 
Patiently, as in behoof 

Of a license e'er they'd go. 

Forth from out the western door 
Came the Abbot ; him before 

Went a brother with his crook, 
And a boy a bell who rung, 
And a silver censer swung, 

Whilst another bore the book. 

Then the Abbot raised his hand, 
Looking to the swallow band, 

Saying, " Ite missa est ! 
Christian birds, depart in peace, 
As your cares of summer cease, 

Swallows, enter on your rest. 

" Now the winter snow must fall, 
Wrapping earth as with a pall, 
And the stormy winds arise. 



SEPTEMBER. 269 



Go to distant lands where glow 
Deathless suns, where falls not snow 
From the ever azure skies. 

u Go ! dear heralds of the road, 
To the sweet unknown abode 

In the verdant Blessed Isles, 
Whither we shall speed some day, 
Leaving crumbling homes of clay 

For the land where summer smiles. 

" Go in peace ! your hours have run ; 
Go, the day of work is done ; 

Go in peace, my sons !" he said. 
Then the swallows spread the wing, 
Making all the welkin ring 

With their cry, and southward sped. 
S. Baring Gould. 



270 OCTOBER. 



October i. 

ONE BY ONE. 

One by one the sands are flowing, 
One by one the moments fall ; 

Some are coming, some are going — 
Do not strive to grasp them all. 

One by one thy duties wait thee, 
Let thy whole strength go to each ; 

Let no future dreams elate thee, 

Learn thou first what these can teach. 

One by one bright gifts from Heaven, 
Joys are sent thee here below ; 

Take them readily when given, 
Ready too, to let them go. 

One by one thy griefs shall meet thee, 
Do not fear an armed band ; 

One will fade as others reach thee, 
Shadows passing thro' the land. 

Do not look at life's long sorrow, 
See how small each moment's pain ; 

God will help thee for to-morrow, 
Every day begin again. 

Every hour that fleets so slowly 

Has its task to do or bear ; 
Luminous the crown and holy, 

If thou set each gem with care. 



OCTOBER. 271 



Do not linger with regretting, 
Or for passing hours despond ; 

Nor, the daily toil forgetting, 
Look too eagerly beyond. 

Hours are golden links, God's token 
Reaching Heaven ; but one by one 

Take them, lest the chain be broken 
Ere the pilgrimage be done. 

Adelaide Anne Proctor. 



SDctobct 2. 

A ROUNDELAY. 

O Sorrow ! 

Why dost borrow 
The natural hue of health, from vermeil lips ? 

To give maiden blushes 

To the white rose bushes ? 
Or is it thy dewy hand the daisy tips ? 

O Sorrow ! 

Why dost borrow 
The lustrous passion from a falcon-eye ? 

To give the glow-worm light ? 

Or, on a moonless night, 
To tinge, on Syren shores, the salt sea spray ? 

O Sorrow ! 

Why dost borrow 
The mellow ditties from a mourning tongue ? 

To give at evening pale 

Unto the nightingale, 
That thou mayst listen the cold dews among? 



272 OCTOBER. 



O Sorrow ! 

Why dost borrow 
Heart's lightness from the merriment of May ? 

A lover would not tread 

A cowslip on the head, 
Tho' he should dance from eve till peep of day- 

Nor any drooping flower 

Held sacred for thy bower, 
Wherever he may sport himself and play. 



To Sorrow 

I bade good morrow, 
And thought to leave her far away behind ; 

But cheerily, cheerily, 

She loves me dearly ; 
She is so constant to me, and so kind ; 

I would deceive her, 

And so leave her, 
But ah ! she is so constant and so kind. 



Beneath my palm trees, by the river side, 
I sat a weeping : in the whole world wide 
There was no one to ask me why I wept — 

And so I kept 
Brimming the water-lily cups with tears 

Cold as my fears. 

Come then, Sorrow, 

Sweetest Sorrow ! 
Like an own babe I nurse thee on my breast : 

I thought to leave thee, 

And deceive thee, 
But now of all the world I love thee best ! 



Keats, Endymion. 



OCTOBER. 273 



SDctober 3- 

I wept for love ; I trembled on the height 

Of ecstasy unprobed and colourless 

Of passion. Then there swept a golden net, 

Star-knotted, lightning-woven, down from God, 

And swathed each moment of my life's delight, 

Each holiest memory of heavenlier bliss 

And passion-thrilling vision and intense, — 

Caught all God's kisses in a sheet of fire, — 

Of Sunset's living crimson, — from my life, 

And bore them into darkness. See how Death 

The Stormcloud learns the Sunlight ! See how Love 

Warms the stern, ice-bound precipice ! See Life 

Eternal intercepting Feet of Time — 

Death dying in the love he bears to Life. 

yearning heart, look inward and above ; 
Thy losses were God's treasures, and thy pain 
His robe of glory. Thus He decks Himself 
For thine embrace — thy beatific gaze. 

And where thou look'st for abject worm and clay, 
And life's last failure in the sightless dust, 
There in th' illusive grave's dark mystery 
Is all thy uttermost, deep, deathless joy 
Earth might not touch, but only kiss her hand 
In unavailing, tearful rapture. Love, 

1 feel thee in the Highest — Crystal sea, 
And throne of endless glory, and the wing 
Of Seraph, and pure Arch-angelic brow, 
All blazoned with thy splendour. 

Oh ! my Home, 
My Life, my God : beneath the shades, I come. 



274 OCTOBER, 



October 4. 

Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took, 
And each doth good turns now unto the other ; 
W hen that mine eye is famish'd for a look, 
A heart in love with sighs himself cloth smother, 
W ith my loves picture then my eye doth feast, 
And to the painted banquet bids my heart ; 
Another time mine eye is my heart's guest,' 
And in his thoughts of love doth share a part : 
So, either by thy picture or my love, 
Thyself away art present still with me ; 
P or thou not farther than my thoughts canst move, 
And I am still with them, and they with thee ; 
Or if they sleep, thy picture in my sight 
Awakes my heart to heart's and eye's delight. 
Shakespeare, Sonnet XLVIL 



SDctobcr 5. 

A CHILD'S SONG. 

11 1 sec the moon and the moon sees me. 
God bless the moon and God bless me." 

Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving? 

Over the sea. 
Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving? 
"All that love me." 



OCTOBER. 275 

Are you not tired with rolling and never 

Resting to sleep ? 
Why look so pale and so sad, as for ever 

Wishing to weep ? 

" Ask me not this, little child ! if you love me, 

You are too bold ; 
I must obey my dear Father above me, 

And do as I'm told." 

Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving? 

Over the sea. 
Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving ? 
" All that love me." 

Lord Houghton. 



October 6. 

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, 
Fool'd by those rebel powers that thee array, 
Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth, 
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay ? 
Why so large cost, having so short a lease, 
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend .' 
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, 
Eat up thy charge ? Is this thy body's end ? 
Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss, 
And let that pine to aggravate thy store ; 
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross ; 
Within be fed, without be rich no more : 

So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men, 
And, Death once dead, there's no more dying then. 



Shakespeare, So?inet CXLVI. 



276 OCTOBER. 



October 7. 

ALONE. 

When the dimpled water slippeth, 

Full of laughter on its way, 
And her wing the wagtail dippeth, 

Running by the brink at play ; 
When the poplar leaves a-tremble, 

Turn their edges to the light, 
And the far-up clouds resemble 

Veils of gauze most clear and white ; 
And the sunbeams fall and flatter 

Woodland moss and branches brown, 
And the glossy finches chatter 

Up and down, up and down : 
Though the heart be not attending, 

Having music of her own, 
On the grass through meadows wending, 

It is sweet to walk alone. 

When the falling waters utter 

Something mournful on their way, 
And departing swallows flutter, 

Taking leave of bank and brae ; 
When the chaffinch idly sitteth 

With her mate upon the sheaves, 
And the wistful robin flitteth 

Over beds of yellow leaves ; 
When the clouds, like ghosts that ponder 

Evil fate, float by and frown, 
And the listless wind doth wander 

Up and down, up and down : 
Though the heart be not attending, 

Having sorrows of her own, 
Through the fields and fallows wending, 

It is sad to walk alone. 

Jean Ingelow. 



OCTOBER. 277 



2Dcto6er 8. 

SUNRISE. 

As on my bed at dawn I mused and prayed, 
I saw my lattice prankt upon the wall, 
The flaunting leaves and flitting birds withal — 
A sunny phantom interlaced with shade ; 

" Thanks be to Heaven," in happy mood I said. 

" What sweeter aid my matins could befall 
Than this fair glory from the east hath made ? 
What holy sleights hath God, the Lord of all, 
To bid us feel and see ! we are not free 
To say we see not, for the glory comes 
Nightly and daily, like the flowing sea ; 
His lustre pierceth through the midnight glooms, 
And at prime hours, behold ! he follows me 
With golden shadows to my secret rooms." 

C. Tennyson Turner. 

October 9. 

AMONG THE ROCKS. 

Oh, good gigantic smile o' the brown old earth 
This autumn morning ! How he sets his bones 
To bask i' the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet 
For the ripple to run over in its mirth ; 

Listening the while, where on the heap of stones 
The white breast of the sealark twitters sweet. 

That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true ; 
Such is life's trial, as old Earth smiles and knows. 
If you loved only what were worth your love, 
Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you ; 

Make the low nature better by your throes ! 

Give earth yourself, go up for gain above ! 

R. Browning. 



278 OCTOBER. 



October 10. 
THE SLEEP. 

Of all the thoughts of God that are 
Borne inward into souls afar, 

Along the Psalmist's music deep, 
Now tell me if there any is, 
For gift or grace surpassing this — 

" He giveth His beloved sleep ?" 

What would we give to our beloved ? 
The hero's heart to be unmoved, 

The poet's star-tuned harp to sweep, 
The patriot's voice to teach and rouse, 
The monarch's crown to light the brows ? 

He giveth His beloved sleep. 

What do \vc give to our beloved ? 
A little faith all undisproved, 

A little dust to overweep, 
And bitter memories to make 
The whole earth blasted for our sake : 

He giveth His beloved sleep. 

" Sleep soft, beloved ! " we sometimes say, 
Who have no tune to charm away 

Sad dreams that thro' the eyelids creep 
But never doleful dream again 
Shall break the happy slumber when 

He giveth His beloved sleep. 

O earth so full of dreary noises ! 
O men with wailing in your voices ! 

O delved gold, the wailers heap ! 
O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall ! 
Cod strikes a silence through you all, 

And giveth His beloved sleep. 



OCTOBER. 279 



His dews drop mutely on the hill, 
His cloud above it saileth still, 

Though on its slope men sow and reap : 
More softly than the dew is shed, 
Or cloud is floated overhead, 

He giveth His beloved sleep. 

Ay, men may wonder while they scan, 
A living, feeling, thinking man 

Confirmed in such a rest to keep ; 
But angels say, and through the word 
I think their happy smile is heard — 

" He giveth His beloved sleep." 

For me, my heart that erst did go 
Most like a tired child at a show, 

That sees through tears the mummers leap, 
Would now its wearied vision close, 
Would childlike on His Love repose, 

Who giveth His beloved sleep. 

And friends, dear friends, when it shall be 
That this low breath is gone from me, 

And round my bier ye come to weep, 
Let one, most loving of you all, 
Say, " Not a tear must o'er her fall ! 

He giveth his beloved sleep !" 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



October 11. 

TROUBLE NOT THE MASTER. 

"Dead is thy daughter, trouble not the Master" — 
Thus in the Ruler's ear his servants spake, 

While tremblingly he urged the Saviour faster 
Up the green slope from that white margined lake. 



280 OCTOBER. 



The soft wave weltered, and the breeze came sighing 

Out of the oleander thickets red ; 
He only heard a breath that gasped in dying, 

Or, " Trouble not the Master — she is dead." 

Trouble Him not. Ah, are these words beseeming 

The desolation of that awful day, 
When love's vain fancies, hope's delusive dreaming 

Are over — and the life has fled for aye ? 

We need Him most when the dear eyes are closing, 
When on the check the shadow lieth strong, 

When the soft lines are set in that reposing, 
That never mother cradled with a song. 

Then most we need the gentle human feeling, 
That throbs with all our sorrows and our fears, 

And that great Love divine its light revealing 
In short bright llashes through a mist of tears. 

Then most we need the Voice that while it wecpeth, 
Yet hath a solemn undertone that saith — 

Weep not, thy darling is not dead, but slecpeth ; 
Only believe, for I have conquered death. 

Then most we need the thoughts of Resurrection, 
Not the life here, 'mid pain, and sin, and woe, 

But ever in the fulness of perfection 

To walk with Him in robes as white as snow. 

When in our nursery garden falls a blossom, 
And as we kiss the hand and fold the feet, 

We cannot see the lamb in Abraham's bosom, 
Nor hear the footfall in the golden street. 

When all is silent, — neither moan nor cheering, 
The hush of hope, the end of all our cares — 

All but that harp above, beyond our hearing, 
Then most we need to trouble Him with prayers. 



OCTOBER. 281 



Did He not enter in when that cold sleeper 
Lay still, with pulseless heart and leaden eyes, 

Put calmly forth each loud tumultuous weeper, 
And take her by the hand and bid her rise ! 

Come to us, Saviour ! in our lone dejection, 
Speak calmly to our wild and passionate grief, 

Bring us the hopes and thoughts of Resurrection, 
Bring us the comfort of a true belief. 

Come ! with that human voice that breaks in weeping, 
Come ! with that awful tenderness divine, 

Come ! tell us that they are not dead but sleeping, 
But gone before to Thee, for they are Thine. 
C. E. Alexander. 



October 12. 

TO SORROW. 

Sister Sorrow ! sit beside me, 
Or, if I must wander, guide me ; 
Let me take thy hand in mine, 
Cold alike are thine and mine. 

Think not, Sorrow, that I hate thee,— 
Think not I am frightened at thee, — 
Thou art come for some good end, 
I will treat thee as a friend. 

I will say that thou art bound 
My unshielded soul to wound 
By some force without thy will 
And art tender-minded still. 

I will say thou givest scope 

To the breath and light of hope ; 



282 OCTOBER. 



That thy gentle tears have weight 
Hardest hearts to penetrate : 

That thy shadow brings together 
Friends long lost in sunny weather, 
With an hundred offices 
Beautiful and blest as these. 

Softly takest thou the crown 
From my haughty temples down ; 
Place it on thine own pale brow, 
Pleasure wears one, — why not thou ? 

Let the blossoms glisten there 
On thy long unbanded hair, 
And when 1 have borne my pain, 
Thou wilt give me them again. 

If thou goest, Sister Sorrow ! 
I shall look for thee to-morrow, — 
I shall often see thee drest 
As a masquerading guest : 

And howe'er thou hid'st the name, 
I shall know thee still the same 
As thou sitt'st beside me now, 
With my garland on thy brow. 

Lord Houghton. 



" 2Dctobcr 13. 

CELESTIAL AND EARTHLY LOVE. 

LOVE is not always harsh and deadly sin : 
If it be love of loveliness divine, 
It leaves the heart all soft and infantine 
For rays of God's own grace to enter in. 



OCTOBER. 283 



Love fits the soul with wings, and bids her win 
Her flight aloft nor e'er to earth decline ; 
'Tis the first step that leads her to the shrine 
Of Him who slakes the thirst that burns 
within. 

The love of that whereof I speak, ascends : 
Woman is different far ; the love of her 
But ill befits a heart all manly wise. 

The one love soars, the other downward tends ; 
The soul lights this, while that the senses stir; 
And still his arrow at base quarry flies. 

Michael Angelo (J. A. Symonds). 



October 14. 

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 

One more unfortunate, 
Weary of breath, 
Rashly importunate, 
Gone to her death ! 

Take her up tenderly, 
Lift her with care ; 
Fashion'd so slenderly, 
Young, and so fair. 

Look at her garments 
Clinging like cerements, 
While the wave constantly 
Drips from her clothing ; 
Take her up instantly, 
Loving, not loathing. 



284 OCTOBER. 



Touch her not scornfully, 
Think of her mournfully, 
Gently and humanly : 
Not of the stains of her, 
All that remains of her 
Now is pure womanly. 

Make no deep scrutiny 
Into her mutiny 
Rash and undutiful ; 
Past all dishonour 
Death has left on her 
Only the beautiful. 

Still for all slips of hers, 
One of Eve's family — 
Wipe those poor lips of hers, 
Oozing so clammily. 

Loop up her tresses, 
E scaped from the comb, 
Her fair auburn tresses, 
Whilst wonderment guesses 
Where was her home ? 

Who was her father ? 
Who was her mother ? 
Had she a sister? 
Had she a brother? 
Or was there a dearer one 
Still, and a nearer one 
Vet, than all other ? 

Alas ! for the rarity 
Of Christian charity, 
Under the sun ! 
Oh ! it was pitiful ! 
Near a whole city full, 
Home had she none. 



OCTOBER. 285 



Sisterly, brotherly, 
Fatherly, motherly 
Feelings had changed ; 
Love, by harsh evidence, 
Thrown from its eminence, 
Even God's Providence 
Seeming estranged. 

Where the lamps quiver 

So far in the river, 

With many a light 

From window and casement, 

From garret to basement, 

She stood, with amazement, 

Houseless by night. 

The bleak winds of March 
Made her tremble and shiver, 
But not the dark arch, 
Or the black flowing river : 
Mad from life's history, 
Glad to death's mystery, 
Swift to be hurl'd, — 
Anywhere, anywhere 
Out of the world ! 

In she plunged boldly, 
No matter how coldly 
The rough river ran, — 
Over the brink of it, 
Picture it, think of it, 
Dissolute man ! 
(Lave in it, drink of it 
Then if you can !) 

Take her up tenderly, 
Lift her with care, 
Fashion'd so slenderly, 
Young, and so fair ! 



286 OCTOBER. 



Ere her limbs frigidly 
Stiffen too rigidly. 
Decently, kindly, 
Smooth and compose them ; 
And her eyes, close them, 
Staring so blindly ! 

Dreadfully staring 
Thro' muddy impurity, 
As when with the daring 
Last look of despairing, 
Fix'd on futurity. 

Perishing gloomily, 
Spurred by contumely, 
Cold inhumanity, 
Burning insanity, 
Into her rest. — 
Cross her hands humbly, 
As if praying dumbly, 
Over her breast ! 

Owning her weakness, 
Her evil behaviour, 
And leaving, with meekness, 
Her sins to her Saviour ! 

T. Hood. 



October 15. 

SAPPHO. 

She lay among the myrtles on the cliff ; 
Above her glared the moon, beneath, the sea, 
Upon the white horizon Athos' peak 
Weltered in burning haze ; all airs were dead ; 



OCTOBER. 287 

The cicale slept among the tamarisk's hair ; 
The birds sat dumb and drooping. Far below 
The lazy sea-weed glistened in the sun ; 
The lazy sea-fowl dried their steaming wings ; 
The lazy swell crept whispering up the ledge, 
And sank again. Great Pan was laid to rest ; 
And Mother Earth watched by him as he slept, 
And hushed her myriad children for a while. 
She lay among the myrtles on the cliff* ; 
And sighed for sleep, for sleep that would not hear, 
But left her tossing still ; for night and day 
A mighty hunger yearned within her breast, 
Till all her veins ran fever ; and her cheek, 
Her long thin hands, and ivory channelled feet, 
Were wasted with the wasting of her soul, 
Then peevishly she flung her on her face, 
And hid her eyeballs from the blinding glare, 
And fingered at the grass, and tried to cool 
Her crisp hot lips against the crisp hot sward : 
And then she raised her head, and upward cast 
Wild looks from homeless eyes, whose liquid light 
Gleamed out between deep folds of blue-black hair, 
As gleam twin lakes between the purple peaks 
Of deep Parnassus, at the mournful moon. 
Beside her lay her lyre. She snatched the shell, 
And waked wild music from its silver strings ; 
Then tossed it sadly by. — "Ah, hush !" she cries ; 
" Dead offspring of the tortoise and the mine ; 
Why mock my discords with thine harmonies ? 
Altho' a thrice-Olympian lot be thine, 
Only to echo back in every tone 
The moods of nobler natures than thine own." 

Charles Kingsley. 



288 OCTOBER. 



October 16. 

THE CHASE. 

Disappointed of her game, 
Panting up the hill she came, 
But her story was begun 
Ere the summit quite she won. 

" Mother ! mother ! I have been 
Such a chase across the green, 
By a cruel bird outwitted, 
Still from bush to bush it flitted, 
Rising oft, but soon alighting, 
Still avoiding, still inviting : 
Now I thought it all my own, 
In a moment it was gone : 
Onward still my steps it drew, 
Then it spread its wing and flew ; — 
What a world of pains it cost ! 
Now the pretty treasure's lost !" 
While the maid her tale repeated, 
Angry to be thus defeated, 
First the prudent mother smiled, 
Then bespoke her pouting child : 

" Let thy chase, my darling, give 
Lesson to thee how to live, 
From thine own pursuit and sorrow, 
From that bird a warning borrow : 
Rash and headlong, child, like thee, 
Man pursues felicity. 
Still illusive prospects cheer him, 
Still he thinks the treasure near him, 
When he on the prize would spring, 
Bliss is ever on the wing, 



OCTOBER. 289 



Thus his weary life he spends 
In a chase that never ends, 
Hopes conceived and baffled ever, 
Bootless guest and vain endeavour." 



De Rossi, trans, by J. Anstice. 



October 17. 

Life is but a day at most, 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; 
Day, how rapid in its flight — 
Day, how few must see the night ; 
Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour, 
Fear not clouds will always lower. 

As thy day grows warm and high, 
Life's meridian flaming nigh, 
Dost thou spurn the humble vale ? 
Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale ? 
Check thy climbing step, elate, 
Evils lurk in felon wait. 



As the shades of ev'ning close, 
Beck'ning thee to long repose, 
As life itself becomes disease, 
Seek the chimney-neuk of ease. 
Say, man's true, genuine estimate 
Is not, Art thou high or low ? 
Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? 
U 



290 OCTOBER. 

Say, To be just, and kind, and wise, 
There solid self-enjoyment lies. 
Thus resign'd and quiet, creep 
To the bed of lasting sleep, 
Till future life, future no more, 
To light and joy the good restore, 
To light and joy unknown before. 

Robert Burns. 



October 1 8. 

One loving howre 
For many yeares of sorrow can dispence ; 
A dram of sweete is worth a pound of sowre. 
Shee has forgott how many a woeful stowre 
For him she late endurd ; she speakes no more 
Of past : true is, that true love hath no powre 
To looken backe ; his eies be fixt before. 

Spenser. 



October io- 

SUCH a starved bank of moss 
Till, that May morn, 

Blue ran the flash across : 
Violets were born ! 

Sky — what a scowl of cloud 

Till, near and far, 
Ray on ray split the shroud : 

Splendid, a star ! 



OCTOBER. 291 



World — how it walled about 

Life with disgrace 
Till God's own smile came out ; 

That was thy face ! 

R. Browning. 



October 20. 

THE EBB OF TIDE. 

The little maid lay moaning, 

Late at the set of sun ; 
They told him, " She is dying 

Now that the day is done !" 
But listening by the window 

He heard the full-toned roar, 
Of great waves, plunging, plunging, 

All down the silent shore. 
And to the watchers weeping, 
" She cannot go," he cried, 
' The soul-call never cometh 

At flowing of the tide." 

The little maid ceased moaning, 

And darker grew the night ; 
They cried, " She is not dying ; 

She'll see the morning light ! " 
But he heard there by the window 

The plunging waves no more, 
But the waters washing, washing, 

Like a lake upon the shore. 
And he heeded not the watchers, 

As hopefully they cried ; 
But said, with lips all trembling, 
" It is the flood of tide." 



292 OCTOBER. 



The little maid lay sleeping, 

Or ere the night was done, 
They said, " She will awaken 

To new life with the sun !" 
But he listened the deep murmur 

The sighing night-wind bore, 
Of the waters sobbing, sobbing, 

As they forsook the shore. 
" Now pray the Lord Almighty, 

Upon your knees," he cried, 
"O pray Him by His mercy, 

For 'tis the ebb of tide !" 

Ah me ! the world is evil, 

And sick with care and sin, 
And sure the Lord had mercy, 

Who left her not therein ; 
For with one cry, " O Father ! " 

She woke ere it was day, 
And sighed and smiled ; and sighing 

And smiling, passed away. 
And sure, in life more blessed 

Her sweet soul doth abide, 
Where on the sea of jasper 

Is never ebb of tide. 

S. J. Stone. 

gDctober 21. 

THE COUNTRY BOY AT SILFORD HALL. 



All round the house did Peter go, and found 
Food for his wonder all the house around. 
There guns of various bore, and rods and lines, 
And all that man for deed of death designs, 



OCTOBER. 293 

In beast, or bird, or fish, or worm, or fly — 
Life in these last must means of death supply ; 
The living bait is gorged, and both the victims die. 
" God gives man leave His creatures to destroy." — 
"What ! for his sport?" replied the pitying boy. — 
" Nay," said the lady ; " why the sport condemn ? 
As die they must, 'tis much the same to them." 
Peter had doubts ; but with so kind a friend 
He would not on a dubious point contend. 

Much had he seen, and everything he saw 

Excited pleasure not unmix'd with awe. 

Leaving each room, he turn'd as if once more 

To enjoy the pleasure that he felt before — 

" What then must their possessors feel ? how grand 

And happy they who can such joys command ! 

For they may pleasure all their lives pursue, 

The winter pleasures, and the summer's too — 

Pleasures for every hour in every day — 

Oh ! how their time must pass in joy away I" 

So Peter said. — Replied the courteous dame : 

" What you call pleasure scarcely owns the name. 

The very changes of amusement prove 

There's nothing that deserves a lasting love. 

They hunt, they course, they shoot, they fish, they 

game ; 
The objects vary, tho' they end the same — 
A search for that which flies them ; no, my boy ! 
'Tis not enjoyment, 'tis pursuit of joy." 

Peter was thoughtful, thinking, "What ! not these, 
Who can command, or purchase, what they please — 
Whom many serve, who only speak the word, 
And they have all that earth or seas afford — 
All that can charm the mind and please the eye — 
And they not happy !— but I'll ask her why." 



294 OCTOBER. 



So Peter ask'd- "Tis not," she said, "for us 
Their Honours' inward feelings to discuss ; 

But if they're happy, they would still < oni 

'Tr. not tne e things thai make their happiness. 

Look from this window ! at his work behold 

Von gardener's helper— he is poor and old, 
l le not one thing of all yon see < an call 

llis own ; hut haply he overlooks them all. 

Hear him I he whistles through his work, or stops 

But to admire his labour or hlS I rops : 

'l o day as every former day he fares, 

And for the morrow ha i no doubts or < arcs ; 

Pious and < heerful, proud when he i an plea e, 

fudge if foe I ompkms wants such things as these. 

Come, lei us forward !" and she walked in haste 

To a large room, itself a work of t< 

But chiefly valued for the works thai drew 

The eye I Ol Peter this indeed was new, 

Wa i mosl impo ting Books ol e\ ery kind 
Were there di po ed, the food for every mind. 
With joy perplex'd, round i asl he wondering eyes, 

Still in his joy, and dumb in his surprise. 

Above, beneath, around, ' ide, 

►i iii and i/'- were book de m i ied ; 
Like Bi hop Hatto, when the rats drew near, 
And v. dangers waked his guilty fear, 

\\ hen thousand 1 1 ame, be Ide, behind, before, 

And up and down < ame mi ten thousand more 

A tail'd and whiskered army, each with (laws 

As sharp as needle ,, and with teeth like saws, — 

So, fill'd with awe, and wonder in his looks, 
Stood Peter, mid i this multitude of books ; 
Both guiltless be and feai l< i ; yet he sigh'd 

To think what I .'.ere to him denied. 



CRABB I ■:, 7 'he Happy Day. 



OCTOBER. 295 



October 22. 

Now was the hour that wakens fond desire 
In men at sea, and melts their thoughtful heart 
Who in the morn have bid sweet friends farewell, 
And pilgrim newly on his road with love 
Thrills, if he hear the vesper bell from far, 
That seems to mourn for the expiring day : 
When I, no longer taking heed to hear, 
Began with wonder, from those spirits to mark 
One risen from its seat, which with its hand 
Audience implored. Both palms it join'd and 

raised, 
Fixing its stedfast gaze toward the east, 
As telling God, " I care for nought beside," 
" Te Lucis Ante," so devoutly then 
Came from its lip, and in so soft a strain, 
That all my sense in ravishment was lost. 
And the rest after, softly and devout, 
Follow'd through all the hymn, with upward gaze 
Directed to the bright supernal wheels. 



Dante's Purgatorio y Canto viii., 
trans. H. F. Cary. 



October 23. 

Joy of my life while left me here, 

And still my love ! 
How in thine absence thou dost steere 
Me from above. 
A life well led 
This truth commends — 

With quick or dead 
It never ends. 



296 OCTOBER. 

Stars are of mighty use : the night 

Is dark and long ; 
The road foul, and where one goes right 
Six may go wrong. 

One twinkling ray 
Shot o'er some cloud 

May cleave much way 
And guide a crowd. 

God's saints are shining lights : who stays 

Here long, must passe 
O'er dark hills, swift streames, and steep ways 
As smooth as glasse : 
But these all night 
Like candles, shed 

Theire beams, and light 
Us into bed. 

They are indeed our pillar-fires, 

Seen as we go : 
They are that Citie's shining spires 
We travel to. 

A sword-like gleame 
Kept man for sin 

First out ; this beame 
Will guide him in. 

H. Vaughan. 



October 24. 

MAN. 

What would this man ? Now upward will he soar, 
And little less than angel, would be more : 
Now looking downwards, just as grieved appears 
To want the strength of bulls, the fur of bears. 



OCTOBER. 297 



Made for his use all creatures if he call, 

Say what their use, had he the pow'rs of all ? 

Nature to these, without profusion, kind, 

The proper organs, proper pow'rs assign'd ; 

Each seeming want compensated of course, 

Here with degrees of swiftness, there of force ; 

All in exact proportion to their state ; 

Nothing to add, and nothing to abate. 

Each beast, each insect, happy in its own, 

Is Heaven unkind to Man, and Man alone ? 

Shall he alone, whom rational we call, 

Be pleas'd with nothing, if not bless'd with all ? 

The bliss of Man (could Pride that blessing find) 

Is not to act or think beyond mankind : 

No pow'rs of body or of soul to share, 

But what his nature and his state can bear. 

Why has not Man a microscopic eye? 

For this plain reason, Man is not a fly. 

Say what the use, were finer optics giv'n, 

T' inspect a mite, not comprehend the heav'n ? 

Or touch, if tremblingly alive all o'er, 

To smart and agonise at ev'ry pore ? 

Or quick effluvia darting thro' the brain, 

Die of a rose in aromatic pain? 

If nature thunder'd in his op'ning ears, 

And stunned him with the music of the spheres, 

How would he wish that Heav'n had left him still 

The whisp'ring zephyr and the purling rill ? 

Who finds not Providence all good and wise, 

Alike in what it gives and what denies ? 

Cease then, nor Order imperfection name ; 
Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. 
Know thy own point : this kind, this due degree 
Of blindness, weakness, Heav'n bestows on thee. 
Submit. — In this or any other sphere, 
Secure to be as bless'd as thou canst bear ; 



298 OCTOBER. 



Pope, Essay on Man. 



SDctobcr 25. 

There's a fancy some lean to and others hate — 

That, when this life is ended begins 
New work for the soul in another state, 

Where it strives and gets weary, loses and wins : 
Where the strong and the weak, this world's con- 
geries, 

Repeat in large what they practised in small, 
Through life after life in unlimited series ; 

Only the scale's to be changed, that's all. 

Yet I hardly know. When a soul has seen 

By the means of Evil that Good is best, 
And, through earth and its noise, what is heaven's 
serene — 

When our faith in the same has stood the test — 
Why, the child grown man, you burn the rod, 

The uses of labour are surely done ; 
There remaineth a rest for the people of God : 

And I have had troubles enough, for one. 

R. Browning. 



Safe in the hand of one disposing Pow'r, 

Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. 

All Nature is but Art, unknown to thee ; 

All Chance, Direction, which thou canst not see ; 

All Discord, Harmony not understood ; 

All partial Evil, universal Good : 

And spite of Pride, in erring Reason's spite, 

One truth is clear, Whatever Is, Is Right. 



OCTOBER. 299 



October 26. 

MARGARET. 

THE Poets, in their elegies and songs 
Lamenting the departed, call the groves, 
They call upon the hills and streams to mourn, 
And senseless rocks ; nor idly ; for they speak, 
In these their invocations, with a voice 
Obedient to the strong creative power 
Of human passion. Sympathies there are 
More tranquil, yet perhaps of kindred birth, 
That steal upon the meditative mind, 
And grow with thought. Beside yon spring I stood, 
And eyed its waters till we seemed to feel 
One sadness, they and I. For them a bond 
Of brotherhood is broken : time has been 
When, every day, the touch of human hand 
Dislodged the natural sleep that binds them up 
In mortal stillness ; and they ministered 
To human comfort. Stooping down to drink, 
Upon the slimy foot-stone I espied 
The useless fragment of a wooden bowl, 
Green with the moss of years, and subject only 
To the soft handling of the elements ! 
There let the relic lie — fond thought — vain words ! 
Forgive them ; — never — never did my steps 
Approach this door but she who dwelt within 
A daughter's welcome gave me, and I loved her 
As my own child. O Sir ! the good die first, 
And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust 
Burn to the socket. 



Wordsworth, The Excursion. 



300 OCTOBER. 



October 27. 

Be strong to hope, O heart ! 

Though day is bright, 
The stars can only shine 

In the dark night 
Be strong, O heart ! 

Look to the Light. 

Be strong to bear, O heart ! 

Nothing is vain ; 
Strive not, though life is care, 

And God sends pain. 
Heaven is above, and there 

Rest will remain. 

Be strong to love, O heart ! 

Love knows not wrong ; 
Didst thou love creatures even, 

Life were not long. 
Didst thou love God in heaven 

Thou wouldst be strong. 

Adelaide Anne Proctor. 



OCTOBER. 301 



October 28. 

THE LAST HOUR. 

Be merciful, be gracious, spare him, Lord ! 
Be merciful, be gracious, Lord, deliver him, 
From the sins that are past ; 

From Thy frown and Thine ire ; 

From the perils of dying ; 

From any complying 

With sin, or denying 

His God, or relying 
On self at the last ; 

From the nethermost fire ; 

From all that is evil ; 

From the power of the devil ; 

Thy servant deliver, 

For once and for ever. 
By Thy birth and by Thy Cross, 
Rescue him from endless loss ; 
By Thy death and burial, 
Save him from a final fall ; 
By Thy rising from the tomb, 

By Thy mounting up above, 

By the Spirit's gracious love, 
Save him in the day of doom. 



(Gerontzus.) 

Sanctus fortis, Sanctus Deus, 
De profundis oro Te, 

Miserere, Judex meus, 
Parce mihi, Domine. 



302 OCTOBER. 



Firmly I believe and truly 

God is Three, and God is one ; 
And I next acknowledge duly 

Manhood taken by the Son. 
And I trust and hope most fully 

In that Manhood crucified ; 
And each thought and deed unruly 

Do to death, as He has died. 
Simply to His grace and wholly 

Light and life and strength belong, 
And I love, supremely, solely, 

Him the Holy, Him the Strong. 
Sanctus fortis, Sanctus Deus, 

De profundis oro Te, 
Miserere, Judex meus, 

Parce mihi, Domine. 
And I hold in veneration, 

For the love of Him alone, 
Holy Church, as His creation, 

And her teachings, as His own ; 
And I take with joy whatever 

Now besets me, pain or fear, 
And with a strong will I sever 

All the ties which bind me here, 
Adoration aye be given, 

With and through the angelic host, 
To the God of earth and heaven, 

Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. 
Sanctus fortis, Sanctus Deus, 

De profundis oro Te, 
Miserere, Judex meus, 

Mortis in discrimine." 

J. H. Newman, Gerontius. 



OCTOBER. 303 



October 29. 

THE BANKS IN AUTUMN. 

O NOW I see what beauties lay 

O'er summer's close, 
And autumn's calm breathing with decay, 

With her last dying rose, 
Sweeter than spring. 

A calm awaiting seems to lie 

O'er leaf and wave ; 
A calm undressing, all so silently, 

For calmness of the grave, 
Unrepining. 

'Tis thus when, all its wanderings past, 

On the still tide 
The bark doth hang its idle sail at last, 

And like a shadow glide 
Into its rest. 

The noiseless brook its banks along 

Winds like a lake, 
Save stilly heard a rippling under-song, 

Whose passing eddies make 
Silence more still. 

Upon the dread and dim serene, 

Each thought that breaks, 
And every breath that stirs the quiet scene, 

A mighty Being speaks, 
Whom we await. 

Such is the awful calm they learn 

Beneath Thy cross 
Who fain would sit, looking for thy return, 
And count the world but loss 
Thy love to gain. 

Isaac Williams. 



3 04 OCTOBER. 



October 30. 

THE BEATIFIC VISION. 

Here may the band that now in triumph shines 
And that, before they were invested thus, 
In earthly bodies carried heavenly minds, 
Pitch round about, in order glorious, 
Their sunny tents, and houses luminous, 
All their eternal day in songs employing, 
Joying their end, without end of their joying, 
While their Almighty Prince destruction is de- 
stroying. 

No sorrow now hangs clouding in their brow, 
No bloodless malady impales their face, 
No age drops on their hair his silver snow, 
No nakedness their bodies doth embase, 
No poverty themselves or theirs disgrace ; 
No fear of death the joy of life devours, 
No unchaste sleep their precious time deflowers, 
No loss, no grief, no change, wait on their winged 
hours. 

But now their naked bodies scorn the cold, 
And from their eyes joy looks, and laughs at pain : 
The infant wonders how he came so old, 
The old man how he came so young again : 
Where all are rich, and yet no gold they owe ; 
And all are kings, and yet no subjects know, 
All full, and yet no time on food do they bestow. 

In midst of their City Celestial, 

Where the Eternal Temple should have rose, 

Lightened the Idea Beatifical : 

End and beginning of each thing that grows, 



OCTOBER. 305 

Whose self no end, nor yet beginning knows : 
That hath no eyes to see, nor ears to hear, 
Yet sees and hears, and is all eye, all ear, 
That nowhere is contained, and yet is everywhere ! 

Giles Fletcher. 



October 31. 

SUNRISE. 

Day ! 

Faster and more fast, 
O'er night's brim, day boils at last ; 
Boils, pure gold, o'er the cloud-cup's brim 
Where spurting and suppressed it lay ; 
For not a froth-flake touched the rim 
Of yonder gap in the solid gray 
Of the eastern cloud, an hour away ; 
But forth one wavelet, then another, curled, 
Till the whole sunrise, not to be suppressed, 
Rose, reddened, and its seething breast 
Flickered in bounds, grew old, then overflowed 
the world. 

R. Browning, Pippa passes. 



3 o6 NOVEMBER. 



/t>otocmber i. 

THE GATHERING OF THE CHURCH. 

WHEREFORE shrink and say, "Tis vain 
I n their hour hell-powers must reign ; 
Vainly, vainly would we force 
Fatal Error's torrent course ; 
Earth is mighty, we are frail, 
Faith is gone, and Hope must fail.'' 

Yet along the Church's sky 
Stars are scattered, pure and high ; 
Yet her wasted gardens bear 
Autumn violets, sweet and rare — 
Relics of a spring-time clear, 
Earnests of a bright new year. 

Israel yet hath thousands sealed, 
Who to Baal never kneeled ; 
Seize the banner, spread its fold ! 
Seize it with no faltering hold ! 
Spread its foldings high and fair, 
Let all see the Cross is there ! 

What, if to the trumpet's sound 
Voices few come answering round ? 
Scarce a votary swell the burst, 
When the anthem peals at first? 
God hath sown and He will reap ; 
Growth is slow when roots are deep : 



NOVEMBER. 307 



He will aid the work begun, 
For the Love of His Dear Son ; 
He will breathe in their true breath, 
Who, serene in prayer and faith, 
Would our dying embers fan 
Bright as when their glow began. 

J. Keble. 



ALL SOULS. 

They whose course on earth is o'er, 
Think they of their brethren more ? 
They before the Throne who bow, 
Feel they for their brethren now ? 

Yea, the dead in Christ have still 
Part in all our joy and ill ; 
Keeping all our steps in view, 
Guiding them, it may be, too. 

We by enemies distrest, — 
They in Paradise at rest ; 
We the captives, they the freed, — 
We and they are one indeed : 

One, in all we seek or shun ; 
One, because our Lord is One ; 
One in heart and one in love ; 
We below and they above. 

Those whom many a land divides, 
Many mountains, many tides, 
Have they with each other part ? 
Have they fellowship at heart ? 



308 NO VEMBER. 



Each to each may be unknown, 
Wide apart their lots be thrown ; 
Differing tongues their lips may speak, 
One be strong, and one be weak : 

Yet in Sacrament and prayer 
Each with other hath a share ; 
Hath a share in tear and sigh, 
Watch, and fast, and Litany. 



With each other join they here 
In affliction, doubt, and fear ; 
That hereafter they may be 
Joined, O Lord, in bliss with Thee ! 

So with them our hearts we raise, 
Share their work and join their praise ; 
Rendering worship, thanks and love, 
To the Trinity above. Amen. 

J. M. Neale. 

/♦Joccmbcr 3. 

a fisher's sermon. 

. . . What ! and shall He wait, 
And must He wait, not only till we say, 
" Good Lord, the house is clean, the hearth is swept, 
The children sleep, the mackerel boats are in, 
And all the nets are mended ; therefore I 
Will slowly to the door and open it," — 
But must He also wait where still, behold ! 
He stands and knocks, while we do say, "Good Lord, 
The gentlefolk are come to worship here, 
And I will up and open to Thee soon ; 
But first I pray a little longer wait, 
For I am taken up with them ; my eyes 
Must needs regard the fashion of their^clothes, 
And count the gains I think to make by them ; 



NOVEMBER. 309 



For sooth they are of much account, good Lord, 
Therefore have patience with me — wait, dear Lord ! 
Or come again?" 

What ! must He wait for this — 
For this ! Ay, He doth wait for this, and still 
Waiting for this, He patient, raileth not ; 
Waiting for this, e'en this, He saith, " Behold ! 
I stand at the door and knock." 

O patient hand ! 
Knocking and waiting — knocking in the night 
Whe/i work is done — I charge you by the sea 
Whereby you fill your children's mouths, and by 
The might of Him who made it — fishermen ! 
Blessed for ever, that ye answer Him ! 
Open the door with shame if ye have sinned ; 
If ye be sorry,open it with sighs. 
Albeit the place be bare for poverty, 
And comfortless for lack of plenishing, 
Be not abashed for that, but open it, 
And take Him in that comes to sup with thee : 
"Behold!" He saith, "I stand at the door and knock." 

Now hear me ; there be troubles in this world 
That no man can escape, and there is one 
That lieth hard and heavy on my soul, 
Concerning that which is to come. — 

I say 
As a man that knows what earthly trouble means, 
I will not bear this One — I cannot bear 
This One — I cannot bear the weight of you — 
You — every one of you, body and soul ; 
You, with the care you suffer and the loss 
That you sustain ; you, with the growing up 
To peril, may be with the growing old 
To want, unless before I stand with you 
At the great white throne, I may be free of all, 
And utter to the full what shall discharge 



3 io NOVEMBER. 



Mine obligation : nay, I will not wait 

A day, for every time the black clouds rise, 

And the gale freshens, still I search my soul 

To find if there be aught that can persuade 

To good, or aught forsooth that can beguile 

From evil, that I (miserable man ! 

If that be so !) have left unsaid, undone. 

So that when any risen from sunken wrecks, 

Or rolled in by the billows to the edge 

Of the Everlasting strand, what time the sea 

Gives up her dead, shall meet me, they may s^y 

Never, " Old man, you told us not of this ; 

You left us fisherlads, that had to toil 

Ever in danger of the secret stab 

Of rocks, far deadlier than the dagger : winds, 

Of breath more murderous than the cannon's; waves, 

Mighty to rock us to our death ; and gulfs, 

Ready beneath to suck and swallow us in : 

This crime be on your head, and as for us — 

What shall we do? but rather,"— nay, not so, 

I will not think it ; I will leave the dead, 

Appealing but to life : I am afraid 

Of you, but not so much if you have sinned 

As for the doubt if sin shall be forgiven. 

See ! I will show at whose unopened doors 
lie stands and knocks, that you may never say, 
" I am too mean, too ignorant, too lost, 
He knocks at other doors, but not at mine." 

Jean Ingeeow. 



/2orj ember 4- 

The Spirit of this age spoke on a certain day : 
" Rise up, my child, and cast thy early faith away. 



NO VEMBER. 



I rose to go : my freedom seemed complete, 

In vain ! Once more, O Lord, behold me at Thy feet. 

Thou art the very life which beats within my heart : 
I have no power to choose : from Thee I cannot part. 

O Light of all the world, that gladdened weary eyes! 
Didst Thou to darkness sink, never again to rise? 

O Voice, more sweet than men had known on earth 

before ! 
Has thy strange music died to silence evermore ? 

Death, thro' which we dreamed of gain in utter 

loss ! 
Was it indeed defeat, that passion of the Cross ? 

Then — Brother, Master, King! — I take my part 

with Thee, 
And where Thou art, O Lord, there let Thy servant 

be. 

The awful unknown Power that in the darkness lies, 
Thou saidst could be revealed, thro' Thee, to mortal 
eyes : 

And what tho' earth and sea His glory do proclaim, 
Tho' on the stars is writ that great and dreadful 
name — 

Yea — hear me, Son of Man — with tears my eyes 
are dim, 

1 cannot read the word which draws me close to Him. 

I say it after Thee, with faltering voice and weak, 
" Father of Jesus Christ," — this is the God I seek. 

And can it be that Thou mistook'st that name divine? 
Then let me share Thy dream, my error be like 
Thine. 



312 NOVEMBER. 



On Thee I lean my soul, bewildered, tempest-tost, 
If Thou can'st fail, for me then everything is lost. 

For triumph, for defeat, I lean my soul on Thee ; 
Yes! where Thou art, O Lord, there let Thy servant be. 
Notes and Queries, Dec. 31, 1SS1. 



r^orjcmbcr 5. 

A BLIGHT. 

What time my heart unfolded its fresh leaves 
In springtime gay, and scattered flowers around, 
A whisper warn'd of earth's unhealthy ground, 
And all that there love's light and pureness grieves ; 
Sun's ray and canker-worm, 
And sudden-whelming storm ; — 
But ah ! my self-will smiled, nor reck'd the gracious 
sound. 

So now defilement dims life's morning-springs ; 
I cannot hear an early cherished strain, 
But first a joy, and then it brings a pain — 
Fear, and self-hate, and vain remorseful stings ; 
Tears lull my grief to rest, 
Not without hope, this breast 
May one day lose its load, and youth yet bloom 
again. 

J. H. Newman. 

^orjembcr 6. 

THE DEAD FRIEND. 

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul, 
Descend to contemplate 
The form that once was dear ! 
The spirit is not there 






NOVEMBER. 313 



Which kindled that dead eye, 

Which throbb'd in that cold heart, 

Which in that motionless hand 

Hath met thy friendly grasp. 

The spirit is not there ! 
It is but lifeless perishable flesh 

That moulders in the grave, 
Earth, air, and water's ministering particles 

Now to the elements 

Resolved, their uses done. 
Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul, 

Follow thy friend beloved, 

The spirit is not there ! 

Often together have we talked of death : 
How sweet it were to see 
All doubtful things made clear ; 
How sweet it were with powers 
Such as the Cherubim, 
To view the depth of Heaven ! 

Edmund ! thou hast first 
Begun the travel of Eternity ! 

1 look upon the stars, 

And think that thou art there, 
Unfetter'd as the thought that follows thee. 

And we have often said how sweet it were 
With unseen ministry of angel power 

To watch the friends we loved. 

Edmund, we did not err ! 
Sure I have felt thy presence ! thou hast given 

A birth to holy thought, 
Hast kept me from the world unstain'd and pure. 

Edmund, we did not err ! 

Our best affections here 
They are not like the toys of infancy ; 



314 NOVEMBER. 



The soul outgrows them not ; 
We do not cast them off ; 
Oh if it could be so. 
It were indeed a dreadful thing to die ! 

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul, 

Follow thy friend beloved ! 

But in the lonely hour, 

But in the evening walk, 
Think that he companies thy solitude ; 

Think that he holds with thee 

Mysterious intercourse : 
And though remembrance wake a tear, 

There will be joy in grief. 



SOUTHEY. 



/♦Joucmbcr 7. 

REST. 

REST is happy — rest is right, 
Rest is precious in God's sight, 
But if he who lies below, 
Out of an abundant heart 
Drawing remedies for woe, 
Never wearied to impart 
Blessings to his fellow-men ; 
If he never rested then, 
But each harvest scattered seed 
For the future word and deed, — 
And the darkness of his kind 
Filled him with such endless ruth, 
That the very light of truth 
Pained him walking 'mid the blind,- 



NOVEMBER. 315 



How, when some transcendent change 
Gives his boundless being range, — 
When he knows not time or space, 
In the nearness of God's face, — 
In the world of spirits how 
Shall that soul be resting now ? 
While one creature is unblest, 
How can such as he have rest ? 

; Rest in Peace," the legend runs, 
Rest is sweet to Adam's sons, 
But can he whose busy brain 
Worked within this hollow skull, 
Now his zeal for truth restrain, 
Now his subtle fancy dull, 
When he wanders spirit-free 
In his young immortality ! 
While on earth he only bore 
Life, as it was linked with lore, 
And the infinite increase 
Of knowledge, was his only peace ; 
Till that knowledge he possest 
How can such a mind have rest ? 



Here we struggle with the light, 
And when comes the fated night, 
Into Nature's lap we fall, 
Like tired children one and all. 
Day and Labour, Night and Rest, 
Come together in our mind, 
And we image forth the blest 
To eternal calm resigned : 
Yet it may be that the abyss 
Of the lost is only this, 
That for them all things to come 
Are inanimate and dumb 



3 i6 NOVEMBER. 



And immortal life they steep 
In dishonourable sleep : 
While no power of pause is given 
To the inheritors of Heaven ; 
And the holiest still are those 
Who are farthest from repose, 
And yet onward, onward, press 
To a loftier godliness ; 
Still becoming, more than being, 
Apprehending, more than seeing, 
Feeling, as from orb to orb 
In their awful course they run, 
How their souls new light absorb 
From the self-existing One, — 
Demiurgos, throned above, 
Mind of Mind, and Love of Love. 



Lord Houghton. 



/♦Jotocmbcr 8. 

KING of Kings ! and Lord of Lords ! 
Thus we move, our sad steps timinj 
To our cymbals' feeblest chiming, 
Where Thy House its rest accords. 
Chased and wounded birds are we, 
Through the dark air fled to Thee : 
To the shadow of Thy wings, 
Lord of Lords, and King of Kings ! 

Behold, O Lord ! the heathen tread 
The branches of thy fruitful vine, 

That its luxurious tendrils spread 
O'er all the hills of Palestine. 



NOVEMBER. 317 



And now the wild boar comes to waste 
Even us, the greenest boughs and last, 
That drinking, of Thy choicest dew, 
On Zion's hill in beauty grew. 

No ! by the marvels of Thine Hand, 
Thou still wilt save Thy chosen land ! 
By all Thine ancient mercies shown, 
By all our fathers' foes o'erthrown ; 
By the Egyptian's car-borne host, 
Scatter'd in the Red sea-coast ; 
By that wide and bloodless slaughter 
Underneath the drowning water. 

Like us in utter helplessness, 
In their last and worst distress, — 
On the sand and sea-weed lying, 
Israel pour'd her doleful sighing ; 
While before the deep sea flow'd 
And behind fierce Egypt rode — 
To their fathers' God they prayed, 
To the Lord of Hosts for aid. 



Then the light of morning lay 
On the wonder paved way, 
Where the treasures of the deep 
In their caves of coral sleep, 
The profound abysses, where 
Was never sound from upper air, 
Rang with Israel's chanted words, 
King of Kings ! and Lord of Lords ! 

Then did Israel's maidens sing, 

Then did Israel's timbrels ring, 

To Him, the King of Kings ! that in the sea, 

The Lord of Lords, had triumph'd gloriously ! 

H. H. MlLMAN, The Fall of Jerusalem. 



3 i8 XOVEMBER. 



/^orjcmbcr 9. 

REQUIEM .ETERNAM. 

To die and be at rest 

Beneath the churchyard sod, 
The corpse in sere-clothes drest, 

The spirit with its God. 

To die and be at rest 
Beyond the world's annoy, 

No cares to vex the breast, 
No tears to trouble joy. 

To die and be at rest 

Where slander's tongue is still. 
Where praise nor mars our best, 

Nor consecrates our ill. 

To die and be at rest 

Where earthly tumults cease, 
Where storms may ne'er infest 

The haven of our peace. 

To die and be at rest 

With them to part no more. 
Rocked gently on the breast 

Of loved ones gone before. 

To die and be at rest 
Beyond the power of sin, 

Love an abiding guest 
The ransomed soul within. 

To die and be at rest — 
For this our natures crave, 

The last home of the blest. 
The world beyond the grave. 



NOVEMBER. 319 



To die and be at rest — 

'Tis childhood's earliest dream, 

In terror unexprest 
Shrinking from life's dark stream. 

To die and be at rest — 

'Tis manhood's bitter cry, 
With thankless toil opprest 

Of wasted energy. 

To die and be at rest — 

Old age with feeble moan 
Echoes the long request, 

To lay its burden down. 

To die and be at rest — 

It is a Christian's prayer, 
For death is God's behest, 

Christ and His saints are there. 

H. N. OXENHAM. 



jftoto ember 10. 

THE COMPLAINT OF A FORSAKEN 
INDIAN WOMAN. 

Before I see another day, 

let my body die away ! 

In sleep I heard the northern gleams ; 
The stars, they were among my dreams 
In rustling conflict thro' the skies, 

1 heard, I saw the flashes drive, 
And yet they are upon my eyes, 
And yet I am alive ; 

Before I see another day, 
O let my body die away ! 



320 NOVEMBER. 



My fire is dead : it knew no pain ; 

Yet it is dead, and I remain : 

All stiff with ice the ashes lie ; 

And they are dead, and I will die. 

When I was well, I wished to live, 

For clothes, for warmth, for food and fire ; 

But they to me no joy can give, 

No pleasure now, and no desire, 

Then here contented will I lie ! 

Alone, I cannot fear to die. 

Alas ! ye might have dragged me on 

Another day, a single one ! 

Too soon I yielded to despair : 

Why did ye listen to my prayer ? 

When ye were gone my limbs were stronger ; 

And oh ! how grievously I rue, 

That afterwards, a little longer, 

My friends, I did not follow you ! 

For strong and without pain I lay, 

Dear friends, when ye were gone away. 

My child ! they gave thee to another, 
A woman who was not thy mother, 
When from my arms my babe they took, 
On me how strangely did he look ! 
Through his whole body something ran, 
A most strange working did I see, 
— As if he strove to be a man, 
That he might pull the sledge for me : 
And then he stretched his arms, how wild ! 

mercy ! like a helpless child. 

My little joy ! my little pride ! 

In two days more I must have died. 

Then do not weep and grieve for me : 

1 feel I must have died with thee. 



NOVEMBER. 321 



wind, that o'er my head art flying 
The way my friends their course did bend 

1 should not feel the pain of dying, 
Could I with thee a message send ; 
Too soon, my friends, ye went away, 
For I had many things to say. 

I'll follow you across the snow ; 

Ye travel heavily and slow ; 

In spite of all my weary pain, 

I'll look upon your tents again, 

— My fire is dead, and snowy white 

The water which beside it stood ; 

The wolf has come to me to-night, 

And he has stolen away my food. 

For ever left alone am I ; 

Then wherefore should I fear to die ? 

Young as I am, my course is run, 

I shall not see another sun ; 

I cannot lift my limbs to know 

If they have any life or no. 

My poor forsaken child, if I 

For once could have thee close to me, 

With happy heart I then would die, 

And my last thought would happy be ; 

But thou, dear babe, art far away, 

Nor shall I see another day. 

Wordsworth. 



jftobember 11. 

Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me, 
Knowing thy heart, torment me with disdain ; 
Have put on black, and living mourners be, 
Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain. 
Y 



322 NOVEMBER. 



And truly not the morning sun of heaven 

Better becomes the gray cheeks of the east, 

Nor that full star that ushers in the even 

Doth half that glory to the sober west, 

As those two mourning eyes become thy face ! 

O, let it then as well beseem thy heart 

To mourn for me, since mourning doth thee grace, 

And suit thy pity like in every part. 

Then will I swear beauty herself is black, 
And all they foul that thy complexion lack. 

Shakespeare Sonnet C XX XII. 



r^orjcmbcr 12. 

THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 

(A picture of Guercino's at Fano.) 

I WOULD not look up thither past thy head 

Because the door opes, like that child, I know. 
For I should have thy gracious face instead, 

Thou bird of God ! And wilt thou bend me low 
Like him, and lay, like his, my hands together, 
And lift them up to pray, and gently tether 
Me, as thy lamb there, with thy garments spread ? 

If this was ever granted, I would rest 

My head beneath thine, while thy healing hands 
Close covered both my eyes beside thy breast, 

Pressing the brain, which too much thought 
expands, 
Back to its proper size again, and smoothing 
Distortion down till every nerve had soothing, 
And all lay quiet, happy, and suppressed. 



NO VEMBER. 323 



How soon all worldly wrong would be repaired ! 

I think how I should view the earth and skies 
And sea, when once again my brow was bared 

After thy healing, with such different eyes, 
O world, as God has made it ! All is beauty : 
And knowing this, is love, and love is duty. 
What further may be sought for or declared ? 



R. Browning. 



iftofcember 13. 

THE BLESSED DEAD. 

O IT is sweet to think 

Of those that are departed, 
While murmured Aves sink 

To silence tender-hearted ; 
While tears that have no pain 

Are tranquilly distilling, 
And the dead live again 

In hearts that love is filling. 



Yet not as in the days 

Of earthly ties we love them ; 
For they are touched with rays 

From light that is above them : 
Another sweetness shines 

Around their well-known features- 
God with His glory signs 

His dearly-ransomed creatures. 



324 NO VEMBER. 



Ah ! they are more our own, 

Since now they are God's only ; 
And each one that has gone 

Has left our heart less lonely. 
He mourns not seasons fled, 

Who now in Him possesses 
Treasures of many dead 

In their dear Lord's caresses. 

Dear dead ! they have become 

Like guardian angels to us ; 
And distant heaven like home, 

Through them begins to woo us. 
Love that was earthly wings 

Its flight to holier places ; 
The dead are sacred things 

That multiply our graces. 

They, whom we loved on earth, 

Attract us now to Heaven ; 
Who shared our grief and mirth 

Back to us now are given. 
They move with noiseless foot 

Gravely and sweetly round us, 
And their soft touch hath cut 

Full many a chain that bound us. 

O dearest dead ! to Heaven 

With grudging sighs we gave you, 
To Him — be doubts forgiven ! 

Who took you there to save you : — 
Now get us grace to love 

Your memories yet more kindly, 
Pine for our homes above 

And trust to God, more blindly. 

F. W. Faber. 



NOVEMBER. 325 



jRotoember 14- 

LlFEandThought have gone away 

Side by side, 
Leaving door and windows wide : 
Careless tenants they ! 

All within is dark as night : 
In the windows is no light, 
And no murmur at the door, 
So frequent on its hinge before. 

Close the door, the shutters close, 
Or thro' the windows we shall see 
The nakedness and vacancy 
Of the dark deserted house. 

Come away ; no more of mirth 
Is here, or merry-making sound. 
The house was builded of the earth, 
And shall fall again to ground. 



II. 

Come away, for Life and Thought 

Here no longer dwell ; 

But in a city glorious — 

A great and distant city, — have bought 

A mansion incorruptible. 

Would they could have stayed with us ! 

Alfred Tennyson. 



326 A 7 VEMBER. 



jftotoember 15. 

LIFE AND DEATH. 

Life is not sweet. One day it will be sweet 

To shut our eyes and die : 
Nor feel the wild flowers blow, nor birds dart by 

With flitting butterfly, 
Nor grass grow long above our heads and feet, 
Nor hear the happy lark that soars sky high, 
Nor sigh that spring is fleet and summer fleet, 

Nor mark the waxing wheat, 
Nor know who sits in our accustomed seat. 

Life is not good. One day it will be good 

To die, then live again ; 
To sleep meanwhile : so not to feel the wane 
Of shrunk leaves dropping in the wood, 
Nor hear the foamy lashing of the main, 
Nor mark the blackened bean-fields, nor where stood 

Rich ranks of golden grain 
Only dead refuse stubble clothe the plain : 

Asleep from risk, asleep from pain. 

Christina Rossetti. 



/♦Jorjcmbcr 16. 
love's justification. 

" Ben pad talor col casto." 

IT must be right sometimes to entertain 

Chaste love with hope not over-credulous ; 
Since if all human loves were impious, 
Unto what end did God the world ordain ? 



NOVEMBER. ^rj 



If I love thee and bend beneath thy reign, 
'Tis for the sake of beauty glorious 
Which in thine eyes divine is stored for us, 
And drives all evil thought from its domain. 

That is not love whose tyranny we own 
In loveliness that every moment dies : 
Which like the face it worships, fades away : 

True love is that which the pure heart hath known, 
Which alters not with time or death's decay, 
Yielding on earth earnest of Paradise. 

Michael Angelo (J. A. Symonds). 



j^otoember 17. 

THETIS AND IPHIGENIA. 

Merrily rose the bridal strain, 
W T ith the pipe of reed, and the wild harp ringing, 
With the Libyan flute, and the dancer's train, 

And the bright-haired muses singing. 

On the turf elastic treading, 
Up Pelion's steep with an airy bound 
Their golden sandals they struck on the ground, 
While the mighty gods were feasting round, 
As they sped to Peleus' wedding, 
They left Pieria's fountain, 

On the leaf-crowned hill they stood> 
They breathed their softest, sweetest lays 
In the bride and bridegroom's praise. 
Re-echoed the Centaur's mountain, 
Re-echoed Pelion's wood. 



328 NO VEMBER. 



The golden goblets crowned the page, 

The Thunderer's darling boy, 
In childhood's rosy age 

Snatched from the plains of Troy, 
Where on the silvery sand 

The noontide sun was glancing, 
The fifty Nereids, hand in hand, 

Were in giddy circles dancing. 

The Centaur's tramp rang up the hill, 
To feast with the gods they trooped in haste, 
And at the board by Bacchus graced, 

The purpling bowl to fill. 

Grassy wreath and larch's bough 

Twined around each shaggy brow. 

Daughter of Nereus, loud to thee 

Chanted the maids of Thessaly. 

Their song was of a child unborn, 

Whose light should beam like summer morn, 

Whose praise by the Delian seer was sung, 

And hymned by Chiron's tuneful tongue. 

" Thetis, mark thy warrior son, 
Girt with many a myrmidon, 
Armed with spear and flaming brand, 
Wasting Priam's ancient land. 
He shall ne'er to foeman quail ; 
He shall case his limbs in mail, 
Casque, and greaves, and breastplate's fold, 
All by Vulcan wrought of gold, 
Moulded in the forge of heaven, 
By his goddess-mother given. 
His shall be a hero's name, 
Godlike might, and deathless fame." 



NOVEMBER. 329 



Thus the gods propitious smiled 
On Peleus and the ocean child ; 
Lady ! not such nuptial wreath 

Shall Argives bid thee wear, 
But, with the flowers of death, 

Entwine thy clustering hair ! 

Euripides, trans, by J. Anstice. 



jftobember 18. 

SLEEPING AND WATCHING. 

Sleep on, baby, on the floor, 

Tired of all the playing : 
Sleep with smile the sweeter for 

That, you dropped away in. 
On your curls full roundness stand 

Golden lights serenely ; 
One cheek, pushed out by the hand, 

Folds the dimple inly ! 
Little head and little foot 

Heavy laid for pleasure. 
Underneath the lids half shut 

Slants the shining azure. 
Open soul in noonday sun, 

So you lie and slumber : 
Nothing evil having done, 

Nothing can encumber. 

I who cannot sleep as well, 

Shall I sigh to view you ? 
Or sigh further to foretell 

All that may undo you ? 
Nay, keep smiling, little child, 

Ere the sorrow neareth : 
I will smile too ! patience mild 

Pleasure's token weareth : 



33o NOVEMBER. 



Nay, keep sleeping before loss. 

I shall sleep though losing ! 
As by cradle, so by cross, 

Sure is the reposing. 

And God knows who sees us twain, 

Child at childish leisure, 
I am near as tired of pain 

As you seem of pleasure. 
Very soon too, by His grace 

Gently wrapt around me, 
Shall I show as calm a face, 

Shall I sleep as soundly. 
Differing in this, that you 

Clasp your playthings, sleeping, 
While my hand shall drop the few 

Given to my keeping : 
Differing in this, that I 

Sleeping shall be colder, 
And in waking presently, 

Brighter to beholder ; 
Differing in this beside, 

(Sleeper, have you heard me? 
Do you move and open wide, 

Eyes of wonder toward me?) 
That while you I thus recall 

From your sleep, I solely, 
Me from mine an angel shall, 

With reveillde holy. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



/♦Jorjcmbcr 19. 

Sweet is the Rose, but grows upon a brere : 
Sweet is the junipere, but sharp his bough ; 
Sweet is the Eglantine, but pricketh nere ; 
Sweet is the firbloome, but his braunche is rough ; 



NO VEMBER. 33* 



Sweet is the cypress, but his rynd is tough ; 
Sweet is the nut, but bitter is his pill ; 
Sweet is the broom-flowre, but yet soure enough ; 
And sweet is Moly, but his root is ill. 
So ev'ry sweet with soure is tempred still, 
That maketh it be coveted the more : 
For easie things, that may be got at will, 
Most sorts of men doe set but little store. 

Why then should I accompt of little paine ? 

That endlesse pleasure shall unto me gaine ? 

Spenser, Sonnet XXVI. 



I® ob ember 20. 

JOHN GRUMLIE. 

John Grumlie swore by the licht o' the moon, 

And the green leaves on the tree, 
That he could do more work in a day 

Than his wife could do in three. 
His wife rose up in the morning 

Wi' cares and troubles enow ; 
"John Grumlie, bide at hame, John, 

And I'll gae haud the plow. 

" First ye maun dress your children fair, 

And put them a' in their gear, 
And ye maun turn the malt, John, 

Or else ye'll spoil the beer. 
And ye maun reel the tweel, John, 

That I span yesterday ; 
And ye maun ca' in the hens, John, 

Else they'll a' lay away." 



332 



NO VEMBER. 



O he did dress his children fair, 

And he put them a' in their gear ; 
But he forgot to turn the malt, 

And so he spoil'd the beer. 
And he sang aloud as he reel'd the tweel 

That his wife span yesterday, 
But he forgot to ca' in the hens, 

And the hens a' laid away. 

The hawkit crummie loot down nae milk, 

He kirned, nor butter gat ; 
And a' gaed wrang, and nought gaed right ; 

He danced wi' rage and grat. 
Then up he ran to the head o' the knowc, 

Wi 3 mony a wave and shout, 
She heard him as she heard him not, 

And steered the stots about. 

John Grumlie's wife came home at e'en, 

And laugh'd as she'd been mad, 
When she saw the house in siccan a plight, 

And John sae glum and sad. 
Quoth he, " I gi'e up my housewife skep, 

I'll be nae mair gudewife ! " 
" Indeed," quo' she, " I'm weel content, 

Ye may keep it the rest o' your life." 

"The deil be in that," quo' surly John, 
" I'll do as I've done before." 
Wi J that the gudewife took up a stout rung, 
And John made off to the door. 
" Stop, stop, gudewife, I'll haud my tongue, 
I ken I'm sair to blame, 
But henceforth I maun mind the plow, 
And ye maun bide at hame." 

Old Scotch Ballad. 



NOVEMBER. 333 



jftotiember 21. 

THE WIDOW. 

COLD was the night wind, drifting fast the snow fell, 
Wide were the downs and shelterless and naked, 
When a poor wanderer struggled on her journey, 
Weary and waysore. 

Drear were the downs, more dreary her reflections ; 
Cold was the night wind, colder was her bosom : 
She had no home, the world was all before her, 
She had no shelter. 

Fast o'er the heath a chariot rattled by her, 
" Pity me ! " feebly cried the lonely wanderer ; 
" Pity me, strangers ! lest with cold and hunger 
Here I should perish. 

" Once I had friends — tho' now by all forsaken ! 
Once I had parents — they are now in heaven ! 
I had a home once — I had once a husband — 
Pity me, strangers ! 

" I had a home once— I had once a husband — 
I am a widow, poor and broken-hearted ! " 
Loud blew the wind, unheard was her complaining, 
On drove the chariot. 

Then in the snow she laid her down to rest her; 
She heard a horseman, "Pity me!" she groan'd out : 
Loud was the wind, unheard was her complaining, 
On went the horseman. 

Worn out with anguish, toil, and cold, and hunger, 
Down sunkthe wanderer, sleep had seized her senses; 
There did the traveller find her in the morning. 
God had released her. 

SOUTHEY. 



334 



NOVEMBER. 



j^otiembcr 22. 

ALONE. 

Alone, in the noisy restless street ; 

Thousands hurrying to and fro 

Lonelier make me as I go 
Creeping onwards with none to greet. 

First far backward a sunnier day 
Home known faces in quiet dells, 
Till up-and-down music of chiming bells 

Brings me back as they comforting say, 

Jesus and Mary were out at night, 

When the winds were sharp and the stars were bright. 

No sweet voice or joyous smile, 

No kind glance or bosom warm, 

Morn and even, calm or storm, 
Cold below, and none beguile. 

Alone, alone, keen though it be, 
The olive grove was keener still, 
The nails and lance, the darkened hill, 

And all alone for love of me. 

Jesus and Mary were out at night, 

When the winds were sharp and the stars were bright. 

Alone on the desolate crowded street, 
Dipping down with a curve of lights, 
Shining silver, glistening sights 

Right and left, but none to greet. 



NOVEMBER. 335 



Yon church windows, lit up for prayers, 
Magdalene Saint though sinner there ; 
Lead me, Lord, her lot to share, 

And let me tread the golden stairs. 

For Jesus and Mary were out at night, 

When the winds were sharp and the stars were bright. 

F. S. Lee. 



iftotoember 23. 

. . . SOME strain in rhyme : the Muses, on their racks, 
Scream like the winding of ten thousand jacks : 
Some free from rhyme or reason, rule or check, 
Break Priscian's head, and Pegasus's neck ; 
Silence, ye wolves, while Ralph to Cynthia howls, 
And makes night hideous — Answer him, ye owls ! 
Flow, Welsted, flow ! like thine inspirer, beer, 
Tho' stale, not ripe ; tho' thin, yet never clear ; 
So sweetly mawkish, and so smoothly dull, 
Heady, not strong ; o'erflowing, tho' not full. 

Joy fills his soul, joy innocent of thought ; 
What pow'r, he cries, what pow'r these wonders 
wrought ? 



Avaunt — is Aristarchus yet unknown ? 
Thy mighty scholiast, whose unweary'd pains 
Made Horace dull, and humbled Milton's strains? 
Turn what they will to verse, their toil is vain, 
Critics like me shall make it prose again. 
Roman and Greek grammarians ! know your better : 
Author of something yet more great than letter ; 
While tow'ring o'er your alphabet, like Saul, 
Stands our Digamma, and o'ertops them all. 



336 NOVEMBER. 



Tis true on words is still our whole debate, 
Disputes of vie or te, of out or at, 
To sound or sink in cano O or A, 
Or give up Cicero to C or K. 

Pope, The Dunciad. 



/tJorjcmbcr 24. 

OLD SHOES. 

I said, "These painful shoes, I cannot see 
Why any longer they should cumber mc ;"' 
So left I them behind, and for awhile 
The change seemed pleasant, and did me beguile 
To dance, to sing of liberty, and smile. 

But presently mine eyes grew dark, my head 
Got dull and heavy, and my heart was lead. 
And if I moved at all, it was to go 
Back to the thickets, and the places low 
Which thorns and cross-leaved nettles overgrow. 

At last I re-assumed my shoes with pain, 

And grew quite well again — 

But ever, if I leave those helps behind 

My heart beats colder, and my head, I find 

Grows dull and heavy, and mine eyes are blind. 

Sometimes I seem to think what can a shoe 
With head or heart, or eyesight have to do ? 
But then I answer, "W 7 hat is that to me?" 



NOVEMBER. 337 



And truly Father, it is good there be 
Thousands of reasons known to none but Thee. 

H. S. Sutton. 



jRotoember 25. 

USQUE QUO, DOMINE. 

How long, O Lord, shall I forgotten be ? 

What? ever? 
How long wilt Thou Thy hidden face from me 

Dissever ? 

How long shall I consult with careful spright, 

In anguish? 
How long shall I with foes triumphant might 

Thus languish ? 

Behold me, Lord ; let to Thy hearing creep 

My crying : 
Nay, give me eyes and light, lest that I sleep 

In dying : 

Lest my foe brag, that in my ruyne he 

Prevailed ; 
And at my fall they joy, that troublous, me 

Assailed. 

No ! no ! I trust on Thee, and joy in Thy 

Great pity : 
Still, therefore, of Thy graces shall be my 

Song's ditty. 

Sir Philip Sidney. 
z 



338 NOVEMBER. 



jRotoember 26. 

Green leaves dying into gold, 
Gold leaves basking in the light, 
And the sad year groweth old. 

Like an Angel Company 
Gazing from the silent height, 
Gleaming in a sightless sky, 

Sleep the leaves their golden sleep. 
Till the rough storm shock of death 
Bid the beechen glory weep, 

And the red-veined whispering throng 
Tremble neath the spirit's breath 
Neath His voice so soft and strong : 

Hark, He calleth : Who shall go? 
Leaving golden life on high, 
Sinking to the deep below? 

Hark, He calleth : Is it I ? 
Thousand echoes, " Is it I ?" 
Quiver in the hollow sky. 



/Soticmber 27. 

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the 

year, 
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows 

brown and sear ; 
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn 

leaves lie dead, 
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbits' 

tread. 



NOVEMBER. 339 



The robin and the wren are flown, and from the 

shrubs the jay, 
And from the wood top calls the crow, through all 

the gloomy day : 



Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that 

lately sprang and stood, 
In brighter light, and softer airs, and beauteous 

sisterhood ? 
Alas ! they all are in their graves, the gentle race 

of flowers 
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and 

good of ours ; 
The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold 

November rain 
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely 

ones again. 

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long 

ago, 
And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the 

summer glow ; 
But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the 

wood, 
And the yellow sun-flower by the brook, in autumn 

beauty stood, 
Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as 

falls the plague on men, 
And the brightness of their smile was gone, from 

upland, glade, and glen. 



And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still 

such days will come, 
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their 

winter home ; 



34 o NOVEMBER. 



When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, tho' all 

the trees are still, 
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the 

rill, 
The south wind searches for the flowers, whose 

fragrance late he bore, 
And sighs to find them in the woods and by the 

stream no more. 

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty 

died, 
The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by 

my side : 
In the cold moist earth we laid her when the 

forest cast the leaf, 
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life 

so brief : 
Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that dear 

child of ours, 
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the 

flowers. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



Jftotocmber 28. 

THE LADY'S YES. 

" Yes," I answered you last night ; 
" No," this morning, sir, I say : 
Colours seen by candle light 
Will not look the same by day. 

When the viols played their best, 
Lamps above and laughs below, 

Love me, sounded like a jest, 
Fit for yes, or fit for no. 



NOVEMBER. 341 



Call me false or call me free, 

Vow, whatever light may shine, — 

No man on your face shall see 
Any grief for change on mine. 

Yet the sin is on us both : 
Time to dance is not to woo ; 

Wooing light makes fickle troth, 
Scorn of me recoils on you. 

Learn to win a lady's faith 

Nobly, as the thing is high, 
Bravely, as for life or death, 

With a loyal gravity. 

Lead her from the festive boards, 

Point her to the starry skies ; 
Guard her, by your truthful words, 

Pure from courtship's flatteries. 

By your truth she shall be true, 

Ever true, as wives of yore ; 
And her yes, once said to you, 

Shall be yes for evermore. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



jRotoemfier 29. 

One adequate support 
For the calamities of mortal life' 
Exists — one only ; — an assured belief 
That the procession of our fate, howe'er 
Sad or disturbed, is ordered by a Being 



342 



NOVEMBER. 



Of infinite benevolence and power ; 

Whose everlasting purposes embrace 

All accidents, converting them to good, 

— The darts of anguish fix not, where the seat 

Of suffering hath been throughly fortified 

By acquiescence in the Will Supreme, 

For time and for Eternity ; by faith, 

Faith absolute in God, including hope, 

And the defence that lies in boundless love 

Of His perfections ; with habitual dread 

Of aught unworthily conceived ; endured 

Impatiently; ill-done or left undone, 

To the dishonour of His Holy Name. — 

Soul of our souls ! and safeguard of the world ! 

Sustain, Thou only canst, the sick of heart, 

Restore their languid spirits, and recall 

Their lost affections unto Thee and Thine ! 



Wordsworth, 
The Excursion, Book iv. 



/2ot)cmber 3°- 

COMING. 

" It may be in the evening, 

When the work of the day is done, 
And you have time to sit in the twilight 

And watch the sinking sun, 
While the long bright day dies slowly 

Over the sea, 
And the hour grows quiet and holy 
With thoughts of me, 



NO VEMBER. 343 



While you hear the village children 

Passing along the street, 
Among those thronging footsteps 

May come the sound of My feet : 
Therefore I tell you, Watch ! 

By the light of the evening star, 
When the room is growing dusky 

As the clouds afar ; 
Let the door be on the latch 

In your home, 
For it may be thro' the gloaming 
I will come. 
" It may be when the midnight 
Is heavy upon the land, 
And the black waves lying dumbly 

Along the sand ; 
When the moonless night draws close, 
And the lights are out in the house ; 
When the fires burn low and red, 
And the watch is ticking loudly 

Beside the bed : 
Tho' you sleep, tired out, on your couch, 
Still your heart must wake and watch 

In the dark room, 
For it may be that at midnight 
I will come. 

"It may be at the cock-crow, 
When the night is dying slowly 

In the sky, 
And the sea looks calm and holy, 
Waiting for the dawn of the golden sun 

Which draweth nigh : 
When the mists are on the valleys, shading 

The river's chill, 
And my morning star is fading, fading 

Over the hill : 



344 NO VEMBER. 






Behold, I say unto you, Watch ! 
Let the door be on the latch 

In your home : 
In the chill before the dawning, 
Between the night and morning, 

I may come. 

" It may be in the morning, 

When the sun is bright and strong, 
And the dew is glittering sharply 

Over the little lawn : 
When the waves are laughing loudly 

Along the shore, 
And the little birds are singing sweetly 

About the door. 
With the long day's work before you, 

You rise up with the sun, 
And the neighbours come in to talk a little, 

Of all that must be done ; 
But remember that I may be the next 

To come in at the door, 
To call you from all your busy work 

For evermore : 
As you work, your heart must watch, 
For the door is on the latch 

In your room, 
And it may be in the morning 
I will come." 

So He passed down my cottage garden, 
By the path that leads to the sea, 

Till He came to the turn of the little road, 
Where the birch and laburnum tree 

Lean over and arch the way : 

There I saw Him a moment stay, 
And turn once more to me, 



NOVEMBER. 345 



As I wept at the cottage door, 

And lift up His hands in blessing. — 
Then I saw His face no more. 
And I stood still in the doorway- 
Leaning against the wall, 
Not heeding the fair white roses, 

Tho' I crushed them, and let them fall. 
Only looking down the pathway, 

And looking towards the sea, 
And wondering, and wondering 

When He would come back for me 
Till I was aware of an angel 

Who was going swiftly by, 
With the gladness of one who goeth 

In the light of God most High. 
He passed the end of the cottage 

Towards the garden gate, — 
(I suppose he was come down 

At the setting of the sun, 
To comfort some one in the village 

Whose dwelling was desolate.) 
And he passed before the door 

Beside my place, 
And the likeness of a smile 
Was on his face ! 
" Weep not," he said, " for unto you is given 

To watch for the coming of His feet, 
Who is the glory of our blessed Heaven ; 

The work and watching will be very sweet 
Even in an earthly home, 
And in such an hour as ye think not 
He will come." 

So I am watching quietly 

Every day : 
Whenever the sun shines brightly 

I rise and say, — 



346 NOVEMBER. 



Surely it is the shining of His face ! 

And look unto the gates of His high place 

Beyond the sea, 
For I know He is coming shortly 

To summon me. 
And when a shadow falls across the window 

Of my room, 
Where I am working my appointed task, 
I lift my head to watch the door, and ask 

If He is come. 
And the angel answers sweetly 

In my home, — 
" Only a few more shadows 

And He will come." 

B. M. 



DECEMBER. 347 



December i. 

THE DAY OF THE LORD. 

The Day of the Lord is at hand, at hand : 

Its storms roll up the sky : 
The nations sleep starving on heaps of gold ; 

All dreamers toss and sigh : 
The night is darkest before the morn ; 
When the pain is sorest the child is born, 

And the Day of the Lord at hand. 

Gather you, gather you, angels of God — 

Freedom and Mercy and Truth ; 
Come ! for the Earth is grown coward and old 

Come down, and renew us her youth. 
Wisdom, Self-sacrifice, Daring, and Love, 
Haste to the battlefield, stoop from above, 

To the Day of the Lord at hand. 

Gather you, gather you, hounds of hell — 

Famine and Plague and War ; 
Idleness, Bigotry, Cant, and Misrule, 

Gather and fall in the snare ! 
Hireling and Mammonite, Bigot and Knave, 
Crawl to the battlefield, sneak to your grave, 

In the Day of the Lord at hand. 



348 DECEMBER. 



Who would sit down and sigh for a lost age of gold, 

While the Lord of all ages is here ? 
True hearts will leap up at the trumpet of God, 

And those who can suffer, can dare. 
Each old age of gold was an iron age too, 
And the meekest of saints may find stern work to do, 

In the Day of the Lord at hand. 

C. KlNGSLEY. 



December 2. 

In a drear-nighted December, 

Too happy, happy tree, 
Thy branches ne'er remember 

Their green felicity : 
The north cannot undo them, 
With a sleety whistle thro' them ; 
Nor frozen thawings glue them 

From budding at the prime. 

In a drear-nighted December, 

Too happy, happy brook, 
Thy bubblings ne'er remember 

Apollo's summer look : 
But with a sweet forgetting, 
They stay their crystal fretting, 
Never, never petting 

About the frozen time. 

Ah ! would 'twere so with many 

A gentle girl and boy ! 
But were there ever any 

Writhed not at passed joy? 
To know the change and feel it, 
When there is none to heal it, 
Nor numbed sense to steal it 

Was never said in rhyme. 

Keats. 



DECEMBER. 349 



December 3. 

God, who at sundry times in manners many- 
Spake to the fathers and is speaking still, 

Eager to find if ever or if any 

Souls will obey and hearken to His will : — 

Who that one moment has the least descried Him, 

Dimly and faintly, hidden and afar, 
Doth not despise all excellence beside Him, 

Pleasures and powers that are not and that are : — 

God, who whatever frenzy of our fretting 
Vexes sad life to spoil and to destroy, 

Lendeth an hour for peace and for forgetting, 
Setteth in pain the jewel of His joy : — 

Gentle and faithful, tyrannous and tender, 

Ye that have known Him, is He sweet to know? 

Softly He touches, for the reed is slender, 
Wisely enkindles, for the flame is low. 

Hark ! what a sound, and too divine for bearing, 
Stirs on the earth and trembles in the air ! 

Is it the thunder of the Lord's appearing ? 
Is it the music of His people's prayer? 

Surely He cometh, and a thousand voices 

Shout to the saints, and to the deaf are dumb ; 

Surely He cometh, and the earth rejoices 
Glad in His coming who hath sworn, I come. 

This hath He done, and shall we not adore Him ? 

This shall He do, and can we still despair ? 
Come let us quickly fling ourselves before Him, 

Cast at His feet the burthen of our care, 



35° DECEMBER. 



Flash from our eyes the glow of our thanksgiving, 
Glad and regretful, confident and calm, 

Then thro' all life and what is after living 
Thrill to the tireless music of a psalm. 

Yea thro' life, death, thro' sorrow and thro' sinning, 
He shall suffice me, for He hath sufficed : 

Christ is the end, for Christ was the beginning, 
Christ the beginning, for the end is Christ. 

Frederic W. H. Myers, Saint Paul. 



December 4. 

THE FURIES' CHORUS. 
{Pursuing Orestes.) 

Weave the wild dance ; awake the song ; 

Awake the strain severe, 

And pour on mortal ear, 
What mighty honours to our race belong. 

Still in justice find we pleasure, 
Meeting right in strictest measure ; 
He, whose hand from blood is pure, 
From our wrath may rest secure ; 
But the sinner who would fain 
Cover murder's crimson stain, 
Still shall find his steps pursued 
By inquisitors for blood, 
Due to the unavenged dead 
Our malison devotes his head. 



O'er the victim we repeat 
Dirges for our office meet ; 



DECEMBER. 351 



Might is in that jarring note 
From the yelling Furies' throat. 
It can bind the soul in sadness, 
Blast the brain with blighting madness, 
Wither budding beauty's bloom, 
Hurry to an early tomb. 
Never harp's responsive chord 
Quivers when that strain is poured. 
When the web of Fate was spun, 
First my service was begun ; 
Him I tend, who, spurning laws, 
Blood hath shed without a cause, 
Till he lie entombed in earth ; 
(Such mine heirloom from my birth) 
Nor in Hades shall he be 
From the pangs of torture free. 

Not to me to touch was given 
Pure inhabitants of heaven, 
Not to taste the social feast, 
Not to wear the snow-white vest : 
When, in household mask, a foe 
Deals the dark assassin's blow, 
Mine to work his overthrow : 



Vengeance is for us alone ! 

Smeared with gore, and marked by fate, 

Objects of eternal hate, 

We are exiles, forced to rove 

From the blessed courts of Jove. 



J. Anstice, 
from JEschylus, Eu?ne?iides. 



352 DECEMBER. 



December 5. 

RESENTMENT. 

This was the husband — in a humble shed 
He nightly slept, and daily sought his bread : 
Once for relief the weary man applied : 
" Your wife is rich," the angry vestry cried : 
Alas ! he dared not to his wife complain, 
Feeling her wrongs, and fearing her disdain. 

At his old home, his motive half suppress'd, 
He sought no more for riches, but for rest : 
There lived the bounteous wife, and at her gate 
He saw in cheerful groups the needy wait. 
u Had he a right with bolder hope to apply ?" 
He ask'd — was answered, and went groaning by : 
For some remains of spirit, temper, pride, 
Forbade a prayer he knew would be denied. 

Thus was the grieving man, with burthen'd ass, 

Seen day by day along the street to pass : 

" Who is he, Susan ? who the poor old man ? 

He never calls — do make him if you can." 

She stopp'd confused, and had her words to seek ; 

From Susan's fears the fact her mistress knew, 

And cried, " The wretch ! what scheme has he in 

view ? 
Is this his lot ? — but let him, let him feel — 
Who wants the courage, not the will to steal !" 

A dreadful winter came, each day severe, 
Misty when mild, and icy cold when clear ; 
And still the humble dealer took his load, 
Returning slow, and shivering in the road. 



DECEMBER. 353 



The lady, still relentless, saw him come, 

And said, " I wonder — has the wretch a home?" 

"A hut ! a hovel !" — "Then his fate appears 

To suit his crime :" — "Yes, lady, not his years ; — 

No ! nor his sufferings, nor that form decay'd." — 

" Well ! let the parish give its paupers aid : 

You must the vileness of his acts allow :" — 

" And you, dear lady, that he feels it now." — 

" When such dissemblers on their deeds reflect, 

Can they the pity they refused expect ? 

He that doth evil, evil shall he dread." — 

"The snow," quoth Susan, "falls upon his bed — 

It blows beside the thatch, it melts upon his head." — 

"'Tis weakness, child, for grieving guilt to feel :" — 

" Yes, but he never sees a wholesome meal : 

Thro' his bare dress appears his shrivelled skin, 

And ill he fares without, and worse within : 

With that weak body, lame, diseased, and slow, 

What cold, what pain, peril, must the sufferer 

know ! " — 
" Think on his crime," — "Yes, sure 'twas very wrong, 
But look (God bless him !) how he gropes along." — 
" Brought me to shame." — " Oh yes ! I know it all — 
What cutting blast ! and he can scarcely crawl : 
He freezes as he moves — he dies ! if he should fall : 
With cruel fierceness drives this icy sleet — 
And must a Christian perish in the street, 
In sight of Christians ? — There ! at last, he lies ; — 
Nor unsupported can he ever rise : 
He cannot live." " But is he fit to die ?"— 
Here Susan softly muttered a reply, 
Look'd round the room — said something of its state, 
Dives the rich, and Lazarus at his gate ; 
And then aloud — " In pity do behold 
The man affrightened, weeping, trembling, cold : 
Oh ! how those flakes of snow their entrance win 
Thro' the poor rags, and keep the frost within ! 
2 A 



354 DECEMBER. 



His very heart seems frozen as he goes, 
Leading that starved companion of his woes : 
He tried to pray — his lips, I saw them move, 
And he so turn'd his piteous looks above ; 
But the fierce wind the willing heart opposed, 
And ere he spoke, the lips in misery closed : 
Poor suffering object ! yes, for ease you pray'd, 
And God will hear — He only, I'm afraid !" — 
" Peace, Susan, peace ! pain ever follows sin." — 
"Ah then !" thought Susan, "when will ours begin? 
When reach'd his home to what a cheerless fire 
And chilling bed will those cold limbs retire ! 

There will he kneeling strive the fire to raise, 
And that will warm him rather than the blaze ; 
And I so warmly and so purely laid, 
To sink to rest — indeed — I am afraid." — 
" Know you his conduct ?" — "Yes, indeed I know — 
And how he wanders in the wind and snow : 
Safe in our rooms the threatening storm we hear, 
But he feels strongly what we faintly fear." — 
"Wilful was rich, and he the storm defied ; 
Wilful is poor, and must the storm abide," 
Said the stern lady — "'Tis in vain to feel, 
Go and prepare the chicken for our meal." 

Crabbe, Talcs, XVII. 



JDcccmbcr 6. 

THEY err who tell us love can die. 

With life all other passions fly — 

All others are but vanity. 

In heaven ambition cannot dwell, 

Nor avarice in the vaults of hell ; 

Earthly these passions of the earth, 

They perish where they have their birth 



DECEMBER. 355 

But love is indestructible, 

Its holy flame for ever burneth, 

From heaven it came, to heaven returneth. 

Too oft on earth a troubled guest, 

At times deceived, at times opprest, 

It here is tried and purified, 

Then hath in heaven its perfect rest ; 

It soweth here with toil and care, 

But the harvest time of love is there. 

Southey. 



JDecember 7. 

MOMENTS. 

I LIE in a heavy trance, 

With a world of dream without me, 
Shapes of shadow dance, 

In wavering bands about me : 
But at times, some mystic things 

Appear in this phanton lair, 
That almost seem to me visitings 

Of truth known elsewhere : 
The world is wide, — these things are small, 
They may be nothing, but they are All. 

A prayer in an hour of pain, 

Begun in an under tone, 
Then lowered, as it would fain 

Be heard by the heart alone ; 
A throb, when the soul is entered, 

By a light that is lit above, 
Where the god of nature has centred 

The beauty of love — 
The world is wide, — these things are small, 
They may be nothing, but they are All. 



356 DECEMBER. 



A look that is telling a tale, 

Which looks alone dare tell, — 
When a cheek is no longer pale 

That has caught the glance as it fell ; 
A touch, which seems to unlock 

Treasures unknown as yet, 
And the bitter, sweet, first shock, 

One never can forget : 
The world is wide, — these things are small, - 
They may be nothing, but they are All. 

A sense of an earnest will 

To help the lowly-living, — 
And a terrible heart-thrill, 

If you have no power of giving : 
An arm of aid to the weak, 

A friendly hand to the friendless, 
Kind words, so short to speak, 

But whose echo is endless : 
The world is wide, — these things are small, - 
They may be nothing, but they are All. 

The moment we think we have learnt 

The love of the All-Wise One, 
By which we could stand unburnt 

On the ridge of the seething sun : 
The moment we grasp at the clue, 

Long lost and strangely riven, 
Which guides our soul to the True, 

And, the Poet to Heaven : 
The world is wide, — these things are small,- 
If they be nothing, what is there at all? 

Lord Houghton. 



DECEMBER. 357 



December 8. 

A PRAYER. 

Burdened with years and full of sinfulness, 
With evil custom grown inveterate, 
Both deaths I dread that close before me wait, 
Yet feed my heart on poisonous thoughts no 
less. 

No strength I find in mine own feebleness 
To change or life or love or use or fate, 
Unless Thy heavenly guidance come, tho' late, 
Which only helps and stays our nothingness. 

'Tis not enough, dear Lord, to make me yearn 
For that celestial home, where yet my soul 
May be new made, and not, as erst of nought : 

Nay, ere Thou strip her mortal vestment, turn 
My steps toward the steep ascent, that whole 
And pure before Thy Face she may be brought. 

Michael Angelo (J. A. Symonds). 



December 9. 

Man dwells apart, though not alone, 
He walks among his peers unread ; 

The best of thoughts which he hath known, 
For lack of listeners are not said. 

Yet dreaming on earth's clustered isles, 
He saith, " They dwell not lone like men," 

Forgetful that their sunflecked smiles 
Flash far beyond each other's ken. 



358 DECEMBER. 



He looks on God's eternal suns 
That sprinkle the celestial blue, 

And saith, " Ah ! happy shining ones, 

I would that men were grouped like you !' 

Vet this is sure, the loveliest star 
That clustered with its peers we see, 

Only because from us so far 

Doth near its fellows seem to be. 



Jean Ingelow. 



December 10. 

CONVERSATION. 

YE powers who rule the tongue, if such there arc, 
And make colloquial happiness your care. 
Preserve me from the thing I dread and hate, 
A duel in the form of a debate. 
The clash of arguments and jar of words, 
Worse than the mortal brunt of rival swords, 
Decide no question with their tedious length, 
For opposition gives opinion strength, 
Divert the champions prodigal of breath ; 
And put the peaceably disposed to death. 

thwart me not, Sir Soph, at every turn, 
Nor carp at every flaw you may discern ; 
Tho' syllogisms hang not on my tongue, 

1 am not surely always in the wrong ; 
Tis hard if all is false that I advance, — 

A fool must now and then be right by chance, 

Not that all freedom of dissent I blame ; 

No — there I grant the privilege I claim ; 

A disputable point is no man's ground ; 

Rove where you please, 'tis common all around. 



DECEMBER. 359 



Discourse may want an animated — No, 

To brush the surface, and to make it flow ; 

But still remember, if you mean to please, 

To press your point with modesty and ease. 

The mark at which my juster aim I take, 

Is contradiction for its own dear sake. 

Set your opinion at whatever pitch, 

Knots and impediments make something hitch, 

Adopt his own, 'tis equally in vain, 

Your thread of argument is snapp'd again : 

The wrangler rather than accord with you, 

Will judge himself deceived, and prove it too ; 

Vociferated logic kills me quite, 

A noisy man is always in the right : 

I twirl my thumbs, fall back into my chair, 

Fix on the wainscot a distressful stare, 

And when I hope his blunders are all out, 

Reply discreetly — To be sure — no doubt ! 

Cowper. 



December 11. 

Alas ! how light a cause may move 

Dissension between hearts that love ! 

Hearts that the world in vain had tried, 

And sorrow but more closely tied ; 

That stood the storm, when waves were rough, 

Yet in a sunny hour fall off, 

Like ships that have gone down at sea, 

When heav'n was all tranquillity ! 

A something, light as air — a look, 

A word unkind or wrongly taken — 

Oh ! love, that tempests never shook, 

A breath, a touch like this hath shaken, 

And ruder words will soon rush in 

To spread the breach that words begin ; 



360 DECEMBER, 



And eyes forget the gentle ray 
They wore in courtship's smiling day ; 
And voices lose the tone that shed 
A tenderness round all they said ; 
Till fast declining, one by one, 
The sweetnesses of love are gone, 
And hearts, so lately mingled, seem 
Like broken clouds— or like the stream 
That smiling left the mountain's brow, 

As though its waters ne'er could sever, 
Vet, ere it reach the plain below, 

Breaks into floods, that part for ever. 

O you that have the charge of Love, 
Keep him in rosy bondage bound ! 

T. MOORE, Lalla Rookh. 



Orcrmbrr 12. 

ADAM'S FIRST KNOWLEDGE OF DEATH. 

What heart of rock could long 

Dry-eyed behold? Adam could not, but wept, 

Though not of woman born ; compassion qucll'd 

His best of man, and gave him up to tears 

A space, till firmer thoughts restrain'd excess, 

And scarce recovering words, his plaint renew'd :- 

"O miserable Mankind, to what fall 
Degraded, to what wretched state reserved ! 
Letter end here unborn. Why is life given 
To be thus wrested from us ? rather why 
Obtruded on us thus ? who, if we knew 
What we receive, would either not accept 
Life ofTer'd, or soon beg to lay it down, 
Glad to be so dismiss'd in peace. Can thus 



DECEMBER. 361 



The image of God in Man, created once 

So goodly and erect, though faulty since, 

To such unsightly sufferings be debased 

Under inhuman pains? Why should not Man, 

Retaining still divine similitude 

In part, from such deformities be free, 

And for his Maker's image' sake, exempt?" 

"Their Maker's image," answered Michael, "then 
Forsook them, when themselves they vilified 
To serve ungoverned Appetite, and took 
His image whom they served — a brutish vice, 
Inductive mainly to the sin of Eve. 
Therefore, so abject is their punishment, 
Disfiguring not God's likeness, but their own ; 
Or, if His likeness, by themselves defaced 
While they pervert pure Nature's healthful rules 
To loathsome sickness — worthily, since they 
God's image did not reverence in themselves." 

" I yield it just," said Adam, " and submit. 
But is there yet no other way, besides 
These painful passages, how we may come 
To death, and mix with our connatural dust ?" 

"There is," said Michael, "if thou well observe 
The rule of ' Not too much,' by temperance taught 
In what thou eat'st and drink'st, seeking from thence, 
Due nourishment, not gluttonous delight, 
Till many years over thy head return. 
So may'st thou live, till, like ripe fruit, thou drop 
Into thy mother's lap, or be with ease 
Gather' d, not harshly pluck'd ; for death mature. 
This is old age ; but then, thou must outlive 
Thy youth, thy strength, thy beauty, which will 

change, 
To wither'd, weak, and gray, — thy senses then, 
Obtuse, all taste of pleasure must forgo 
To what thou hast ; and, for the air of youth, 
Hopeful and cheerful, in thy blood will reign 



362 DECEMBER. 



A melancholy damp of cold and dry, 

To weigh thy spirits down, and last consume 

The balm of life." To whom our Ancestor: — 

"Henceforth I fly not death, nor would prolong 
Life much — bent rather how I may be quit, 
Fairest and easiest, of this cumbrous charge, 
Which I must keep till my appointed day 
Of rendering up, and patiently attend 
My dissolution.'' Michael replied : — 

M .\Or love thy life, nor hate ; but what thou liv'st 
Live well ; how long, or short, permit to Heaven." 

.Ml I .TON, 



December 13. 

THE LIGHT THAT IS FELT. 

A 1 1 M'l k child of summers three, 
Seeking her little bed at night, 
Paused on the dark stair timidly. 
•• ( ) mother, take my hand," said she, 
'• And then the dark will all be light !" 

We older children grope our way 
From dark behind to dark before ; 
And only when our hands we lay 
Dear Lord in Thine, the night is day, 
And then is darkness nevermore. 

Reach downward to the sunless days 
Wherein our guides are blind as we, 
And faith is small, and hope delays ; 
Take Thou the hands of prayer we raise, 
And let us feel the light of Thee ! 



J. G. Whittier. 



DECEMBER. 363 

December 14. 

QUICKENING. 

I STOOD by a tree in December, 

I stood and I mocked it sore ; 
I said, " Thou old leafless cumberer 

Of earth, thy day is o'er ; 
I will send for the axe of the forester, 

That thou vex my sight no more." 

I looked on a life all leafless, 

And dry as a wintry tree, 
And I said, " Thou art old and useless, 

The world hath no need of thee ; 
Thou art joyless, and shadeless, and sapless ; — 

O God ! why should such lives be?" 

But the sun beamed out in the summer, 

And I looked on my slighted tree, 
And 'neath its umbrageous cover, 

Green grass and sweet flowers be, 
And through its green boughs hover 

Insect, and bird, and bee. 

And I said to myself in wonder, 
Lo ! I thought 'twas a lifeless tree, 

But the living sap flowed under 
The bark so hard to see, 

It needed but quickening summer 
To set its own life free. 

I looked on the life I had slighted, 

And lo ! it bloomed rich and rare, 
And kindly grace unblighted 

Shone round it everywhere ; 
In its warm glow delighted, 

All living things had share. 



364 DECEMBER. 



And I said, what quickening summer 
Hath come to this life- worn tree, 

Hath burst its bands asunder, 
And set its froze sap free ? 

Wouldst know the life-giving mother? 
God's Love is that mystery. 



Mrs. Campbell of Ballochyle. 



December 1 5. 

DISCONTENT. 

LIGHT human nature is too lightly tost 

And ruffled without cause, complaining on, 

Restless with rest, until, being overthrown, 

It learneth to lie quiet. Let a frost 

Or a small wasp have crept to the innermost 

Of our ripe peach, or let the wilful sun 

Shine westward of our window, — straight we run 

A furlong's sigh as if the world were lost. 

But what time through the heart and through the 

brain 
God hath transfixed us, — we so moved before, 
Attain to a calm. Ay, shouldering weights of pain, 
We anchor in deep waters, safe from shore, 
And hear submissive o'er the stormy main 
God's chartered judgments walk for evermore. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



DECEMBER. 365 



December 16. 

A KINGDOM. 

My minde to me a kingdom is ; 

Such perfecte joy therein I find 
As farre exceeds all earthly blisse, 

That God or nature hath assignde : 
Tho' much I want, that most would have, 
Yet still my mind forbids to crave. 

Content I live, this is my stay ; 

I seek no more than may suffice ; 
I presse to beare no haughtie sway ; 

Look what I lacke my minde supplies. 
Loe ! thus I triumph like a king, 
Content with that my mind doth bring. 

I see how plentie surfeits oft, 
And hastie clyinbers soonest fall : 

I see that such as sit aloft 
Mishap doth threaten most of all : 

These get with toil, and keepe with feare : 

Such cares my mind could never beare. 

No princely pompe, nor welthie store, 
No force to winne the victorie, 

No wylie wit to salve a sore, 

No shape to winne a lover's eye ; 

To none of these I yield as thrall ; 

For why ? my mind despiseth all. 

Some have too much, yet still they crave, 
I little have, yet seek no more ; 

They are but poore, tho' much they have ; 
And I am rich with little store : 

They poor, I rich ; they beg, I give ; 

They lacke, I lend ; they pine, I live. 



366 DECEMBER. 



I laugh not at another's losse, 
I grudge not at another's gaine ; 

No worldly wave my mind can tosse, 
I brooke that is another's bane : 

I fear no foe, nor fawnc on friend, 

I lothe not life, nor dread mine end. 



I joy not in no earthly blisse ; 

I weigh not Cresus' welth a straw 
For ease, I care not what it is ; 

I fcare not fortune's fatall law : 
My mind is such as may not move 
For beautie bright or force of love. 



I wish but what I have at will ; 

I wander not to Mvk for more ; 
I like the plaint-, 1 clime no hill ; 

In greatest storms I sittc on shore, 
And laugh at them that toilc in vaine 
To eet what must be lost againc. 



I kissc not where I wish to kill ; 

1 feigne not love where most I hate 
I brcake no sleep to winnc my will ; 

I wayte not at the mighties gate ; 
I scorne no poore, I feare no rich ; 
I feel no want, nor have too much. 

The court, ne cast, I like, ne loath ; 

Extreames are counted worst of all 
The golden meane betwixt them both 

Doth surest sit, and fears no fall ; 
This is my choyce ; for why ? I finde 
No welth is like a quiet minde. 



DECEMBER. 3 6 7 

My welth is health, and perfect ease ; 

My conscience clere my chief defence : 
I never seeke by brybes to please, 

Nor by desert to give offence : 
Thus do I live, thus will I die ; 
Would all did so as well as I ! 

Quoted by Ben Jonson in 
Every Man out of his Humour, 1509. 



December 17. 

THE GOLDEN PRISON. 

Weep not for me, when I am gone, 
Nor spend thy faithful breath 

In grieving o'er the spot or hour 
Of all-enshrouding death : 

Nor waste in idle praise thy love 

On deeds of head or hand, 
Which live within the living Book, 

Or else are writ in sand ; 

But let it be thy best of prayers, 

That I may find the grace 
To reach the holy house of toil, 

The frontier penance-place, — 

To reach that golden palace bright, 

Where souls elect abide, 
Waiting their certain call to Heaven, 

With angels at their side ; 

Where hate nor pride nor fear torments 

The transitory guest, 
But in the willing agony 

He plunges, and is blest. 



368 DECEMBER. 



And as the fainting- patriarch gain'd 

His needful halt mid-way, 
And then refresh'd pursued his path, 

Where up the mount it lay, 

So pray, that, rescued from the storm 

Of Heaven's eternal ire, 
I may lie down, then rise again, 

Safe, and yet saved by fire. 

J. H. Newman. 

December 18. 

One day I wrote her name upon the strand ; 

Hut came the waves and washed it away ; 

Agayne, I wrote it with a second hand ; 

Hut came the tyde, and made my paynes his pray. 

Vayne man, said she, that dost in vain assaye 

A mortal] thing so to immortalize ; 

For I my selve shall lyke to this decay, 

And eke my name bee wyped out lykwizc. 

Not so, quod I ; let baser things devize 

To dy in dust, but you shall live by fame ! 

My verse your vertues rare shall eternize, 

And in the hevens wryte your glorious name, 

Where, whenas death shall all the world subdue, 
Our love shall live, and later life renew. 

Spenser, Sonnet LXXW 



December 19. 

HOPE BENEATH THE WATERS. 

" I cannot mount to Heaven beneath this ban 
Can Christian hope survive so far below 
The level of the happiness of man ? 
Can angels' wings in these dark waters grow?" 



DECEMBER. 369 



A spirit voice replied, " From bearing right 
Our sorest burthens, comes fresh strength to bear ! 
And so we rise again towards the light, 
And quit the sunless depths for upper air : 
Meek patience is as diver's breath to all 
Who sink in sorrow's sea, and many a ray 
Comes gleaming downward from the source of day, 
To guide us reascending from our fall ; 
The rocks have bruised thee sore, but angel's wings 
Grow fast from bruises, hope from anguish springs." 
C. Tennyson Turner. 



December 20. 

. . . Earth, earth, earth, behold ! 
And in that judgment look upon thine own ! 

Even thus amid thy pride and luxury, 
Oh Earth ! shall that last coming burst on thee, 

That secret coming of the Son of Man, 
When all the cherub-throning clouds shall shine, 
Irradiate with his bright advancing sign : 

When that Great Husbandman shall wave His fan, 
Sweeping, like chaff, thy wealth and pomp away ; 
Still to the noontide of that nightless day, 

Shalt thou thy wonted dissolute course maintain. 
Along the busy mart and crowded street, 
The buyer and the seller still shall meet, 

And marriage feasts begin their jocund strain ; 
Still pouring out the Cup of Woe ; 
Till Earth, a drunkard, reeling to and fro, 

And mountains molten by His burning feet, 

And Heaven His presence own, all red with 
furnace heat. 

2 B 



370 DECEMBER. 



The hundred-gated cities then, 

The towers and temples, nam'd of men 

Eternal, and the thrones of kings ; 
The gilded summer palaces, 
The courtly bowers of love and ease, 

Where still the bird of pleasure sings ; 
Ask ye the destiny of them ? 
Go gaze on fallen Jerusalem ! 

Yea, mightier names are in the fatal roll, 
'Gainst earth and heaven God's standard is unfuiTd, 

The skies are shrivell'd like a burning scroll, 
And the vast common doom ensepulchres the world. 

Lord of all power, when Thou art there alone 
On Thy eternal fiery-wheeled throne, 
That in its high meridian noon 
Needs not the perish'd sun nor moon ; 

When Thou art there in Thy presiding state, 
Wide sceptred monarch o'er the realm of doom : 
When from the sea depths, from earth's darkest womb, 

The dead of all the ages round Thee wait ; 
And when the tribes of wickedness are strewn 

Like forest leaves in the autumn of Thine ire ; 
Faithful and true ! Thou still wilt save Thine own ! 

The saints shall dwell within th' unharming fire, 
Each white robe spotless, blooming every paim, 
Even safe as we, by this still fountain's side, 
So shall the Church, Thy bright and mystic bride, 

Sit on the stormy gulf, a halcyon bird of calm. 
Yes, mid yon angry and destroying signs, 
O'er us the rainbow of Thy mercy shines, 
We hail, we bless the covenant of its beam, 
Almighty to avenge, Almightiest to redeem. 

H. H. Milman, Dean of St. Paul's, 
The Fall of Jerusalem. 



DECEMBER. 371 



December 21. 

WHAT OF THE NIGHT? 

What of the night, what of the night ? 

Blue and starry and cold, 
Silver mists in the gray twilight 

Over the level wold ? 
Forward and backward, thought on thought, 

Others have gazed before, 
Souls are precious, though earth is nought, 

And bright the golden shore. 

What of the night, what of the night ? 

Pales the radiant moon, 
Stars die out in uncertain light, 

And morning cometh soon : 
Morning dawns and sorrows creep back, 

Unrest in the golden ray, 
Long is the night, but certain the track 

To the everlasting day. 

F. G. Lee. 



December 22. 

O NEVER say that I was false of heart, 

Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify ! 

As easy might I from myself depart, 

As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie : 

That is my home of love : if I have rang'd, 

Like him that travels I return again ; 

Just to the time, not with the time exchang'd,— 

So that myself bring water for my stain ; 



372 DECEMBER. 

Never believe, though in my nature reign'd 
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood, 
That it could so preposterously be stain'd, 
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good ; 
For nothing this wide universe I call, 
Save thou, my rose ; in it thou art my all. 

Shakespeare, Sonnet CIX. 



^December 23. 

THE GOTTINGEN PROFESSOR. 

... I am left alone once more — 

Alone beside the entrance door 

Of a sort of temple — perhaps a college, 

— Like nothing I ever saw before 

At home in England, to my know ledge. 

The tall, old, quaint, irregular town ! 

It may be . . . though which. I can't affirm, any 

Of the famous middle-age towns of German) ; 

It may be Gottingcn, — most likely. 
Thro" the open door I catch obliquely 
Glimpses of a lecture hall ; 
And not a bad assembly neither, 
Rang'd decent and symmetrical 
Oil benches, waiting what's to see there ; 
Which I also resolve to see with them. 

But hist — a buzzing and emotion ! 

All settle themselves, the while ascends 



DECEMBER. 373 



By the creaking rail to the lecture desk, 
Step by step, deliberate, 
Because of his cranium's overfreight, 
Three parts sublime to one grotesque, 
If I have proved an accurate guesser, 
The hawk-nosed, high-cheek-boned Professor. 
I felt at once as if there ran 
A shoot of love from my heart to the man — 
That sallow, virgin-minded, studious 
Martyr to mild enthusiasm, 
As he uttered a kind of cough-preludious 
That woke my sympathetic spasm, 
(Beside some spitting that made me sorry) 
And stood, surveying his auditory 
With a wan pure look, well-nigh celestial, — 
Those blue eyes had survived so much ! 
While, under the foot they could not smutch, 
Lay all the fleshly and the bestial. 
Over he bowed, and arranged his notes, 
Till the auditory's clearing of throats 
Was done with, died into a silence ; 
And, when each glance was upward sent, 
Each bearded mouth composed intent, 
And a pin might be heard drop half a mile hence, — 
He pushed back higher his spectacles, 
Let the eyes stream out like lamps from cells, 
And giving his head of hair — a hake 
Of undressed tow, for colour and quantity — 
One rapid and impatient shake, 
(As our own young England adjusts a jaunty tie 
When about to impart, on mature digestion, 
Some thrilling view of the surplice-question) 
—The Professor's grave voice, sweet though hoarse, 
Broke into his Christmas Eve discourse. 



R. Browning, 
Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. 



374 DECEMBER. 



December 24. 

A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 

It chanced upon the merry, merry Christmas Eve, 
I went sighing past the church across the moor- 
land dreary — 
"Oh ! never sin and want and woe this earth will 
leave, 
And the bells but mock the wailing rounds, they 
sing so cheery. 
How long, O Lord ! how long before Thou come 
again ! 
Still in cellar, and in garret, and on moorland 
dreary 
The orphans moan, and widows weep, and poor 
men toil in vain, 
Till earth is sick of hope deferred, though Christmas 
bells be cheery." 

Then arose a joyous clamour from the wild-fowl on 
the mere, 
Beneath the stars, across the snow, like clear bells 
ringing, 
And a voice within cried, — "Listen! Christmas 
carols even here ! 
Tho' thou be dumb, yet o'er their work the stars 
and snows are singing. 
Blind ! I live, I love, I reign ; and all the nations 
through, 
With the thunder of my judgments even now are 
ringing ; 
Do thou fulfil thy work but as yon wild-fowl do, 
Thou wilt heed no less the wailing, yet hear 
through it angels singing." 

Charles Kingsley. 



DECEMBER. 375 



December 25. 

The shepherds sing ; and shall I silent be ? 

My God, no hymne for Thee ? 
My soul's a shepherd too : a flock it feeds 

Of thoughts and words and deeds. 
The pasture is Thy Word ; the streams, Thy Grace 

Enriching all the place. 
Shepherd and flock shall sing, and all my powers 

Out-sing the daylight houres. 
Then will we chide the sunne for letting night 

Take up his place and right : 

We sing one common Lord ; wherefore he should 

Himself the candle hold, 
I will go searching, till I find a sunne 

Shall stay, till we have done. 
A willing shiner, that shall shine as gladly, 

As frost-nipt sunnes look sadly. 
Then we will sing, and shine all our own day, 

And one another pay : 
His beams shall cheer my breast, and both so twine, 
Till ev'n his beams sing, and my musick shine. 

George Herbert, The Church. 



December 26. 

Earth's children cleave to Earth — her frail 
Decaying children dread decay. 

Yon wreath of mist that leaves the vale, 
And lessens in the morning ray ; 



216 DECEMBER. 



Look how, by mountain rivulet, 

It lingers as it upward creeps, 
And clings to fern and copsewood set 

Along the green and dewy steeps : 
Clings to the fragrant kalmia, clings 

To precipices fringed with grass, 
Dark maples where the wood-thrush sings, 

And bowers of fragrant sassafras. 

Yet all in vain — it passes still 

From hold to hold, it cannot stay, 
And in the very beams that fill 

The world with glory, wastes away, 
Till, parting from the mountain's brow, 

It vanishes from human eye 
And that which sprung of earth is now 

A portion of the glorious sky. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



December 27. 

Two suns appear to men to-day : one made, 
One Maker : one eternal, one to fade, 
One the Stars' King ; the King of their King, one : 
This makes — that bids him make — the hours to run. 
The Sun shines with the True Sun, ray with ray, 
Light with light, Day with Him that makes the day. 
Day without night, without seed bears the fruit, 
Unwedded Mother, Flower without a root. 
She than all greater : He the greatest still ; 
She filled by Him whose glories all things fill. 
That night is almost day, and yields to none, 
Wherein God flesh, wherein flesh God, put on. 



DECEMBER. 377 



The undone is done again ; attuned the jar : 
Sun precedes day, the morn, the morning star. 
True Sun, and Very Light, and Very Day : 
God was that Sun, and God its Light and ray. 
How bare the Virgin, ask'st Thou, God and Man ? 
I know not : but I know God all things can. 

S. HlLDEBERT, 

trans, by}. M. Neale. 



December 28. 

They scarcely waked before they slept, 
They scarcely wept before they laughed ; 
They drank indeed death's bitterest draught, 
But all its bitterest dregs were kept 
And drained by mothers while they wept. 

From Heaven the speechless infants speak : 
Weep not (they say), our mothers dear, 
For swords nor sorrows come not here, 

Now we are strong who were so weak, 

And all is ours we could not seek. 

We bloom among the blooming flowers, 

We sing among the singing birds ; 

Wisdom we have who wanted words ; 

Here morning knows not evening hours, 

All's rainbow here without the showers. 

And softer than our mother's breast, 
And closer than our mother's arm, 
Is here the Love that keeps us warm 
And broods above our happy nest, 
Dear mothers, come, for Heaven is best. 

Christina Rossettl 



378 



DECEMBER. 



December 29. 

WE watched her breathing thro' the night, 

Her breathing soft and low, 
As in her breast the wave of life 

Kept heaving to and fro. 

So silently we seem'd to speak 

So slowly moved about, 
As we had lent her half our powers 

To eke her living out. 

Our very hopes belied our fears, 

Our fears our hopes belied, — 
We thought her dying when she slept, 

And sleeping when she died. 

For when the morn came dim and sad, 

And chill with early showers, 
Her quiet eyelids closed— she had 

Another morn than ours. 

T. Hood. 



December 30. 

HE ITEALETH THE BROKEN IN HEART. 

< >n Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear, 

How dark this world would be, 
If when deceived and wounded here, 

We could not fly to Thee ! 
The friends who in our sunshine live. 

When winter comes, are flown ; 
And he who has but tears to give, 

Must weep those tears alone. 






DECEMBER. 379 



But Thou wilt heal that broken heart, 
Which, like the plants that throw 

Their fragrance from the wounded part, 
Breathes sweetness out of woe. 

When joy no longer soothes or cheers, 

And even the hope that threw 
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears, 

Is dimm'd and vanished too ! 
Oh who would bear life's stormy doom, 

Did not Thy wing of love 
Come, brightly wafting through the gloom 

Our peace-branch from above ? 
Then sorrow, touch'd by Thee, grows bright 

With more than rapture's ray; 
As darkness shows us worlds of light 

We never saw by day. 

T. Moore. 



December 31. 

THE DYING YEAR. 

YES, the year is growing old, 
And his eye is pale and bleared ! 

Death, with frosty hand and cold, 
Plucks the old man by the beard, 
Sorely — sorely ! 

The leaves are falling, falling, 

Solemnly and slow ; 
Caw ! caw ! the rooks are calling, 

It is a sound of woe, 
A sound of woe. 



380 DECEMBER. 



Thro' woods and mountain passes 
The winds, like anthems, roll ; 

They are chanting solemn masses, 
Singing, " Pray for this poor soul, 
Pray — pray ! " 

And the hooded clouds, like friars, 
Tell their beads in drops of rain, 

And patter their doleful prayers ; — 
But their prayers are all in vain, 
All in vain ! 

Then comes the summerlike day, 

Bids the old man rejoice ! 
His joy ! his last ! Oh the old man gray 

Loveth that ever soft voice 
Gentle and low. 

To the crimson woods he saith — 

To the voice gentle and low 
Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath, — 

" Pray do not mock me so ! 
Do not laugh at me !" 

And now the sweet day is dead ; 

Cold in his arms it lies ; 
No stain from its breath is spread 

Over the glassy skies, 
No mist or stain ! 

Then too, the old year dieth, 

And the forests utter a moan 
Like the voice of one who crieth 

In the wilderness alone, 
"Vex not his ghost!" 



DECEMBER. 381 



Then comes, with an awful roar, 

Gathering and sounding on, 
The storm-wind from Labrador, 

The wind Euroclydon, 
The storm-wind ! 

Howl ! howl ! and from the forest 

Sweep the red leaves away ! 
Would the sins that thou abhorrest, 

O soul ! could thus decay, 
And be swept away ! 

For there shall come a mightier blast, 

There shall be a darker day ; 
And the stars, from heaven downcast, 
Like red leaves be swept away ! 
Kyrie Eleison ! Christe Eleison ! 

Longfellow. 



INDEX. 



All are architects of Fate . 

And with that word 

As from a mountain's top . 

Are there not, then, two musics 

A thousand pretty ways 

Alas, why plainen men 

As precious gums 

And a new spirit . 

All fair things 

A dewdrop falling 

And art thou dead 

As it fell upon a day . 

Ah, yet when all is thought and 

As ships, becalmed 

A day of clouds and darkness 

A good man ther was . 

As, at a railway junction 

A thing of beauty 

A troop of boys . 

Angels thy old friends 

A spotless child . 

As on my bed at dawn 

All round the house 

Alone, in the noisy 

Alas ! how light a cause 

A tender child of summers three 



Busy, curious, thirsty fly . 

Beneath the hedge 

But peace ! I must not quarrel 

Beauty is but a vain . 

Blue and baseless and beautiful 

But what strange art . 

Be not afraid to pray . 





Longfelloro 


IO 


. 


Chancer 


12 




Longfellow 


46 




A. H. C lough 


5i 




Cowley 


57 




Chancer 


63 




Dry den 


70 




George Eliot 


92 




Lord Houghton 


106 




R. C. Trench 


107 




Byron 


124 




Shakespeare 


127 


said 


A. H. C lough 


147 




A. H. C lough 


149 




J. M. Neale 


169 




Chaucer 


189 




A. H. C lough 


201 




Keats 


215 




Ernest Myers 


221 




R. Crashaw 


261 




R. Browning 


263 




C. Tennyson Turner 


277 




Crabbe 


292 




F. S. Lee 


334 




Moore 


359 




J. G. Whittier 


362 


B 








IV. Oldys 


108 




Cowper 


123 




Milton 


140 




Shakespeare 


151 




J. Ruskin 


159 




Crabbe 


182 




Hartley Coleridge 


192 



384 INDEX. 








TAGE 


Believe not that your inner eye . 




Lord Houghton 


198 


But there are richer entanglements . 


Keats 


210 


Beneath an Indian palm 




Lord Houghton 


216 


Betwixt mine eye and heart 




Shakespeare 


274 


Be strong to hope, O heart . 




A. A. J' roc tor 


300 


Be merciful, be gracious 




J. H. Newman 


301 


Before I see another day 




li 'ordsivorth 


319 


Burdened with years . 




Michael Angelo 


357 


Charme me asleep 


C 


Herrick 


2 


Christ ! I am Christ's . 




F. W. H. Myers 


22 


Come, my Way, my Truth, my Life 


G. Herbert 


39 


Can I see another's woe 




W. Blake 


50 


Can I not come to Thee 




Herrick 


64 


Conversation is but carving 




Walter Scott 


84 


Crabbed age and youth 




Shakespeare 


135 


Clear and cool 




C. Kinesley 


136 


Come forth, come forth 




J. Lockhart 


168 


Cold was the night wind 




Southey 


333 


Daphne knows 


D 


Swift 


M 


Dry those fair 




Dr. King 


24 


I town with rosemary . 




Herrick 


31 


Dark is the sky . 




S. J. Stone 


33 


Death was full urgent . 




J. //. Newman 


228 


is thy daughter . 




C. ]•'.. Alexander 


279 


1 disappointed of her came • 




J. A nst ice 


288 


I >a\ , faster and more fast . 




K. Browning 


305 


Early in spring time . 


E 


C. Kingsley 


7i 


Each trial has its weight 




J ' . //. Newman 


x 75 


Eternal Lord! eased of acumbro 


uslo 


id Michael A ngelo 


209 


Ethereal minstrel 




11 'ordsivorth 


231 


Earth, earth, earth 




H. //. Milman 


3 6 9 


Earth's children cleave to earth 




W. C. Bryant 


375 


Fain would I wish 


F 


Mich a el A ngelo 


7 


For many books . 




G. Wither 


58 


For what so strong 




Spenser 


82 


First April .... 




Herrick 


87 


Faire pledges of a fruitfull tree 




Herrick 


117 


Flowers preach to us . 




C. Rossetti 


146 


Few rightly estimate the worth 




Old MS. 


223 



INDEX. 



335 



For note, when evening 

For a thousand years the stars 

Fear death ? 



PAGE 

R. Browning 226 

241 

R. Browning 247 



Gold banish'd honour . 
Great monarch of the world 
Gabriel, from the heaven descending 
Green leaves dying into gold 
God, who at sundry times . 



Gay 10 

Charles I. 27 

Adam of St. Victor 80 

Anon. 338 

F. W. H. Myers 349 



H 

He died the beautiful death 

He who for love .... 

He who bends to himself . 

Heav'n from all creatures . 

How glorious were the nightingales 

He saves the sheep 

He who wintry hours hath given 

He that loves a rosy cheek 

How happy is he born 

Here's the garden she walked across 

He is the happiest man 

He has ta'en some twenty . 

How do I love thee 

Here let us leave him . 

How calm, how beautiful . 

Here may the band 

How long, O Lord 



S. /. Stone 

Lord Ho7tghton 

W. Blake 

Pope 

J. M. Neale 

M. Arnold 

Anon. 

Carew 

SirH. Wotton 

R. Browning 

J. Anstice 

J. Lockhart 

E. B. Browning 

F. W. H. Myers 

Moore 

Giles Fletcher 

Sir Philip Sidney 



52 

61 
67 
82 
85 
89 
109 
120 
126 

i57 

1 8a 



205 
206 



304 
337 



I cannot sleep 

If sorrow came not near us 

I saw no mortal beauty 

I thought to meet no more 

I shall not ask 

I cannot choose but think 

I wish to have no wishes left 

I do not ask, O Lord . 

I heard a thousand 

I f thou wilt ease thy heart 

I wandered lonely 

I cannot tell what you say 

I've watched you now 

If the race of men are wise 

If thou be master gunner 

It is a beauteous evening 



Longfellow 

R. C. Trench 

Michael A ngelo 

J. Keble 

Cowper 

George Eliot 

F. W. Fader 

A. A. Proctor 

Wordsworth 

T. L. Beddoes 

Wordsworth 

C. Kingsley 

Wordsworth 

J. Anstice 

G. Herbert 

Wordsworth 



2 C 



386 INDEX. 










PAGE 


In all this world . 




Chaucer 


1 66 


It is not death 




T. Hood 


167 


If that high world 




Byron 


167 


I've heard them lilting 




Old Ballad 


176 


I've seen the smiling . 




Mrs. Cockbum 


177 


If thou be one 




Wordsworth 


183 


I have a room 




C. Rossetti 


195 


If doughty deeds 




Graham of Gar/ 'more 


200 


It Came, I know not whence 




, Michael Angelo 


216 


I took my heart in my hand 




C. Rossetti 


217 


It is not the tear . . . 




Moore 


219 


Innocent child 




IK C Bryant 


220 


In such a world . 




Cowfer 


220 


It is our trust 




R. Browning 


231 


I know not which to choose 




H. Swinney 


242 


I stand by the river 




E. B. Browning 


264 


I wept for love 




Anon. 


=73 


I would not look up 




R. Browning 


322 


It must be right sometimes. 




Michael A ngeJo 


326 


I saiil, These painful shoes. 




H. S. Sutton 


336 


It may be in the evening 




B. M. 


342 


In a drear-nighted December 




Keate 


348 


I lie in a heavy trance 




Lord Houghton 


355 


I St 1 by a tree . 




Mrs. Campbell 


363 


I cannot mount to Heaven . 




. C. Tennyson Burner 


368 


I am left alone once more . 




R. Browning 


372 


It chanced upon the merry . 




C. Kittys ley 


374 


Jesu, bless our slender boat 


J 


Wordsworth 


144 


Joy comes and goes 




M. Arnold 


205 


Joy of my life 

John Grumlie swore . 




11. Vaughan 


295 




Scotch Ballcui 


33i 



Know then thyself 
King of Kings 



Po/e 207 
//. H. Milman 316 



Life ! I know not .... Mrs. Barbauld 

Let not soft slumber .... M'atts 

Let me not to the marriage of true minds Shakespeare 

Lie not ; but let thy heart be true . G. Herbert 

Little lamb, who made thee . . W.Blake 

Lo the oke . ' Chaucer 

Lift it gently to the steeple . . /. M. Ncale 

Lay Thy hand upon me C. M. Noel 



INDEX. 



387 





PAGE 


Lord, in tliis dust . 


/. //. Newman 


184 


Like as the waves . 


Shakespeare 


219 


Lord, with what courage . 


11. 1 'aughan 


230 


Lady Moon 


Lord Houghton 


274 


Love is not always harsh . 


Michael Angelo 


282 


Life is but a day 


Robert Burns 


289 


Life and thought are gone away 


Tennyson 


325 


1 life is not sweet .... 


C. Rossetti 


326 


Light human nature . 

M 

Man's life was spacious 


E. B. Browning 


3<M 


George Eliot 


3 


May 1 through life 


Merrick 


5 


Miserere 1 )oinine I 


M. Arnold 


61 


Morning, evening, noon, and night, 


R. Browning 


96 


M ystenous night 


Blanco White 


104 


My faithful! friend 


Herrick 


i53 


More and more stars . 


J. Keble 


*73 


Mark you the iloore 


G. Herbert 


187 


Minds are for sects 


Crab be 


213 


Men you call fair 


Sf>cnscr 


227 


Man may find life's pathway 


J. Anstice 


237 


Merrily rose the bridal strain 


J. Anstice 


327 


Man dwells apart 


J . Ingclow 


357 


My minde to me a kingdom is . 


Ben Jonsou 


365 


N 
No tears, no sighing . 


T. Lovcll Bed docs 


9 


Not a tiling is by itself 


The Second Brother 


15 


Nothing is left or hist . 


R, C. Tic in h 


62 


Night hath no wings . 


Jlerr'n k 


89 


Not always actions show the man 


Pope 


IOI 


No .loud, no relique . 


S. T. Cole rid vc 


114 


Now the bright morning star 


Milton 


116 


Nothing so true .... 


Pope 


137 


No action whether foul or fair 


I ong fellow 


M3 


Nought blinds you less 


A'. Browning 


235 


No stir in the air .... 


Southey 


248 


Now in life's breezy morning 


R. Myers 


251 


Now was the hour 


Dante (Cary) 


295 


Not to the grave .... 


Southey 


312 


O 

Oh ! how much more doth Beauty 


Shakespeare 


27 


( )l't as Thee, my infant Saviour . 


/■:. < 'asivall 


32 


One morning, all alone 


l.o ne fellow 


34 


glotonie, full of cursednesse 


Chaucer 


53 


< ) say what is that thing called light 
On the cross the dying Saviour . 


ColleyCibber 


55 


Longfcllozu 


90 



33S 



INDEX. 





PAGE 


On every priest Crabbe 


III 


Oh, that our dreamings all 






Keats 


151 


O fair as far 






A no)i. 


173 


chance, suggesting . 






J. Anstice 


194 


O for one minute hark 






F. \V. 11. Myers 


196 


soden wo . 






Chaucer 


207 


stream descending . 






A. II . C lough 


238 


O Earth, I count . 






E. B. Browning 


239 


night, O sweet 






Michael . 1 


247 


O dull, dull heart 






C. A . S. 


251 


O only source 






A. II. dough 


256 


th, lie heavily 






C. Rossetti 


263 


On to the sacred hill . 






Milton 


265 


One by one . 






A. A. Proctor 


270 


O Sorrow ! . 






A' cits 


271 


Oh, good gigantic smile 






R. Frowning 


277 


Of all the thoughts 






E. B. Browning 


278 


One more unfortunate . 






T. Hood 


283 


One loving howre 






Spenser 


20O 


O now I see what beauties 


ay 




Isaac 11 'illiams 


3°3 


O it is sweet to think . 






F. //'. labor 


323 


[equate support . 






Wordsworth 


341 


One day I wrote her name 






Spenser 


368 


O never say . 






Shakespeare 


371 


Oil Thou "ho dry'st . 






Moore 


378 


Y 

Parting, to meet no more . . . Isaac Williams 


21 


Put "it thy robe of purple . 




Herrich 


91 


Peace i-~ God's direct assurance 




Lonl Houghton 


233 


1 e around thee . 




Moore 


260 


Poor soul, the centre . 


Q 


Shahesfeare 


275 


Queen and huntress 




Ben Jonson 


Il8 



Rest is happy 



Lord Houghton 314 



Sleep, Holy Babe 

Shepherd, what's Love? 

Since I did leave .... 

Stella this day is thirty-four 

Say not the struggle naught availeth 

Sweet, thou hast trod on a heart 

Sweet day so cool 

Some are laughing 



E. Casiuall 


S 


Sir 11 '. Raleigh 


26 


Spenser 


30 


Swift 


68 


A. II. C lough 


78 


E. B. Browning 


84 


G. Herbert 


127 


C. Rossetti 


191 



INDEX. 


389 






PAGE 


Sweet, be not proud . 


Herrick 


192 


Said an ancient hermit 


S. Baring Gould 


197 


She pluck'd a wild wood-rose 


C. Tennyson Turner 


2 54 


Somewhat back from the village stree 


Longfellow 


258 


Sister Sorrow 1 sit beside me 


Lord Houghton 


281 


She lay among the myrtles . 


C. Kingsley 


286 


Such a starved bank of moss 


R. Brozvning 


290 


Sleep on, baby .... 


E. B. Browning 


329 


Sweet is the Rose 


Spenser 


33° 


Some strain in rhyme . 


Pope 


335 


T 

Thou shouldst have longer lived . 


Charles Lamb 


4 


There is a jewel .... 


Unknown 


12 


Thus cavils she .... 


Shakespeare 


18 


These hairs of age 


Lord Vaux 


25 


To see sad sights .... 


Shakespeare 


33 


The voice which I 


G. Wither 


38 


Thou speakest carelessly of death 


Longfellow 


4i 


Thou knowest, Lord . 


Anon. 


42 


The Assyrian came down . 


Byron 


49 


Thou cam'st not to thy place 


R. C. Trench 


56 


This love of self .... 


Cainpa?ielle 


57 


The soul secured .... 


Addison 


58 


The fables of the world 


Michael A ngelo 


62 


Teach me, my God and King 


G. Herbert 


65 


There is a Reaper 


Longfellow 


66 


There's not a joy the world can give 


Byrofi 


69 


Therefore to whom turn I . 


R. Browning 


7 6 


The whispering waves 


Shelley 


79 


Through the mossy sods 


Shelley 


79 


The foe behind .... 


J. M. Neale 


93 


The forward violet 


Shakespeare 


99 


The past's our own ... 


C. Kingsley 


100 


The pathos exquisite . 


George Eliot 


105 


The east wind slept 




108 


The bud on the bough 


Given 


no 


There is a wound within me 




no 


The stars burnt out 


Shelley 


120 


The mother stood at the window 


Heine 


I 3 I 


The bubble of the silver springing wave 


s Roscoe 


142 


These are the happier pairs 




142 


The tomb to the blushing rose . 


Bulwer Lytton 


150 


The earth was green . 


C. Rossetti 


153 


To leave unseen so many . 


R. C. Trench 


J 54 


Talk not of wasted affection 


Longfellow 


155 


Tiger, tiger, burning bright 


IV. Blake 


156 


'Tis not, I know .... 


Crabbe 


J 59 


'Tis hard to say .... 


Pope 


160 


Thy life is safe .... 


Byron 


162 



39Q INDEX. 






PAGE 


The evening comes .... 


M. Arnold 


163 


There is no flock 


Longfcllenv 


185 


Time was a sober Englishman . 


Pope 


188 


The lake lay hiil in mist 


A >ion. 


190 


Take the last kiss .... 


J. M Neale 


x 93 


The people's honest child . 


Lord Houghton 


196 


' Iw.f, August 


M. Arnold 


209 


Tears though they're here . 


Herrick 


210 


To hope where hope is vain 


Mrs. J. Anstict 


227 


Tht: land that gave me birth 


Dante (Cary) 


232 


Tell me in what state of life 


/. . i 


236 


To me, fair friend 


Snaht 


244 


The world's a sea .... 


F. Quartos 


245 


There is a silence 


T. Hood 


253 


These beauteous forms 


Wordsworth 


253 


. Is are flitting . 


J. . 1 notice 


255 


Thou art the source 




260 


The little maid lay moaning 


S. J. Stone 


291 


There's a fancy some lean to 


R. Browning 


298 


i : I, in their elegies . 


Word 


299 


They whose course 


J. if. 


3°7 


The spirit of this age spoke 


i an<l Queries 


310 


To die and be at rest . 


11 . X. ( )xenham 


3i8 


Thine eyes I love 


S/lO. '. 


321 


The melani holy days are come . 


W. (". Bryant 


338 


The Day of the Lord is at hand . 


C. Kingsley 


347 


This was the husband . 


352 


They err who tell us . 


Southey 


354 


The shepherds sing 


G. Herbert 


375 


Two suns appear to men 


S. Hildebert 


376 


They scarcely \sakcd . 


('. Rossetti 


377 


U 
! . undone .... 


. .'iqucs 




Under ( vers. 


S. Bart* 




W 

When first thy eyes unveil . 


II. 1 ' : 


8 


We live not in our moments 


A'. C. 


13 


F myself, and sick of asking 


M. . [mold 


16 


With partial hands the gods 


Pope 


17 


Why will ye call it 


C. M. Noel 


'9 


Who will show me 


G. Herbert 


21 


What can we do .... 


F. 11 r . II. Myers 


40 


Welcome, deans feast of Lent 


G. Herbert 


54 


Welcome, wild North-Easter 


C. A 


59 


When I consider how my I 


Milton 


64 


When once thy foot • 


G. Herbert 


67 


When love with unconfined wings 


Col. A' 


77 


Who was it that so lately said 


R. C. Trench 


78 



INDEX. 



39i 



We live together years and years 

Who is the happy warrior . 

Why does the sea moan evermore 

Where sunless rivers weep . 

We were apart .... 

When gripinge grefes 

Where did you come from, baby dear 

Why this flower .... 

What state of life can be so blest 

Whene'er thy shining vane . 

We read together 

What are we set on earth for ? . 

What is a Church ? 

When some dear human friend . 

Within the Cretan cavern's shade 

Welcome joy, and welcome sorrow 

Who reade a chapter . 

When the dimpled water . 

What would this man . 

Wherefore shrink and say . 

What ! and shall He wait . 

What time my heart unfolded 

Weave the wild dance 

What heart of rock 

Weep not for me .... 

What of the night 

We watched her breathing . 



Lord Houghton 

Wordsworth 

C. Rossetti 

C. Rossetti 

M. Arnold 

R. Edwards 

G. Macdonald 

Herrick 

Dry den 

Francis Lear 

Lord Houghton 

E. B. Browning 

Crabbe 

C. Tennyson Turner 

J. Anstice 

Keats 

G. Herbert 

J. Ingelow 

Pope 

J. Kebie 

J. Ingelow 

J. H. Newman 

J. Anstice 

Milton 

J, H. Newman 

F. G. Lee 

T. Hood 



PAGE 

99 
103 
105 
116 
121 
I29 
130 
134 
145 
178 

i 7 8 
206 
212 

225 
243 
243 
264 
276 
296 
306 
308 
312 
35o 
360 
367 
37i 
378 



Ye flaming powers 
You know her meek sister? . 
Yes, it was the mountain echo . 
Ye shepherds so cheerful and gay 
Ye were mine . . . 
Yes ! in the sea of life en-isled . 
" Yes," I answered you last night 
Ye powers who rule the tongue . 
Yes, the year is growing old 



Milton 

Thorn 

Wordsworth 

Shenstone 

M. Arnold 

E. B. Browning 

Cowper 

Longfellow 



224 
240 
257 

34o 
358 
379 



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